THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN 


By  Conrad  Aiken 
EARTH  TRIUMPHANT 

AND  OTHER  TALES   IN   VERSE 

TURNS  AND  MOVIES 

AND  OTHER  TALES  IN  VERSE 

THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN 

A  SYMPHONY 


THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN 

Symphony 


BY 

CONRAD  AIKEN 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1916,  by 

THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 


THE  FOUR  SEAS  PRESS 
BOSTON  MASS.  U.  S.  A. 


PS3SW 


To  My  Wife 


360406 


NOTE 

Parts  of  this  poem  have  appeared  in  The  Poetry 
Journal,  Boston;  The  Century;  and  Others,  New  York. 

The  vampire  narrative  in  Part  Four  is  a  free  adap 
tation  of  the  story  by  Gautier — La  Morte  Amoureuse. 


PREFACE 

It  has  often  been  said  that  a  book  which  needs  an  ex 
planatory  preface  is  a  book  which  has  not  entirely  suc 
ceeded.  In  the  present  instance,  however,  whether 
that  is  true  or  not,  there  are  other  complications :  and 
for  that  reason  I  am  glad  to  run  the  risk  of  being  told 
that  the  book  is  a  failure. 

These  complications  arise  from  the  fact  that  The  Jig 
cf  Forslln  is  somewhat  new  both  in  method  and  in  struc 
ture.  It  does  not  conveniently  fit  in  any  category,  and 
is  therefore  liable,  like  all  such  works,  to  be  condemned 
for  not  being  something  it  was  never  intended  to  be. 
The  critics  who  like  to  say  'this  man  is  a  realist/  or 
'this  man  is  a  romanticist,'  or  in  some  such  way  to  tag 
an  author  once  and  for  all,  will  here  find  it  difficult. 
For  my  intention  has  been  to  employ  all  methods,  atti 
tudes,  slants,  each  in  its  proper  place,  as  a  necessary 
and  vital  part  of  any  such  study  as  this.  Consequently, 
it  is  possible  to  pick  out  portions  of  this  poem  to  ex 
emplify  almost  any  poetic  method  or  tone.  This  eclect- 

7 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

icism,  or  passage  from  one  part  to  another  of  the  poetic 
gamut,  has  not  been  random  or  for  the  sake  of  a  mere 
tour  de  force :  it  has  been  guided  entirely  by  the  central 
theme.  This  theme  is  the  process  of  vicarious  wish  ful 
filment  by  which  civilized  man  enriches  his  circum 
scribed  life  and  obtains  emotional  balance.  It  is  an  ex 
ploration  of  his  emotional  and  mental  hinterland,  his 
fairyland  of  impossible  illusions  and  dreams :  ranging, 
en  the  one  extreme,  from  the  desire  for  a  complete  ty 
ranny  of  body  over  mind,  to  the  desire,  on  the  other  ex 
treme,  for  a  complete  tyranny  of  mind  over  body ;  by 
successive  natural  steps. .  .in  either  direction. 

As  far  as  possible,  the  attempt  has  been  made  to  re 
late  these  typical  dreams,  or  vicarious  adventures,  not 
discretely,  but  in  flux.  Certain  breaks,  as  between  the 
five  main  parts  of  the  poem,  have  been  necessary,  how 
ever,  for  both  artistic  and  psychological  reasons.  To 
break  up  a  single  poem  of  the  length  of  the  present  one 
is  almost  compulsory:  the  angle  of  approach  must  be 
changed  every  so  often  if  the  reader's  attention*  is  to  be 
held  at  all.  On  the  psychological  side,  it  is  obvious 

[8] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

enough  that  the  range  of  vicarious  experience,  here  of 
necessity  only  hinted  at,  or  symbolized  by  certain  con 
crete  and  selected  pictures,  is  suggested  on  a  completer 
and  more  comprehensive  plan  than  will  be  found  in  any 
specific  individual :  a  good  many  types  have  been  weld 
ed,  to  give  the  widest  possible  range.  Fonslin  is  not  a 
man,  but  man.  Consequently,  opposite  types  of  ex 
perience  are  here  often  found  side  by  side,  and  it 
would  be  obviously  false  to  force  a  connection. 

As  far  as  the  technique  of  the  verse  is  concerned, — 
the  harmony  and  counterpoint,  if  I  may  use  the  terms 
in  a  general  sense, — it  has  been  governed  as  much,  al 
ways,  by  consideration  of  the  whole  as  of  the  part. 

Cacophonies  and  irregularities  have  often  been  de 
liberately  employed  as  contrast.  Free  rhythms,  and 
rhymeless  verse,  have  been  used,  also,  to  introduce  va 
riety  of  movement.  Mood  and  movement,  in  general, 
have  been  permitted  to  fluctuate  together,  as  they  would 
seem  to  do  automatically  if  not  violated  by  too  arbi 
trary  choice  of  pattern  .  .  .  This  does  not  mean,  how 
ever,  that  there  has  been  no  choice  of  pattern  whatever. 

[9] 


PROGRAM 

THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN  is  roughly  in  symphonic  form.  A 
program  of  the  more  narrative  movements  may  be 
given  as  follows : 

PART  I. 

PROLOGUE  OF  FORSLIN 
THE  JUGGLER 
ESCAPING  GAS 
MERETRIX:  IRONIC 

PART  II. 
PATRICIAN  MURDER 
DEATH  IN  A  PEG-HOUSE 
THE  DIVE  OF  DEATH 

PART  III. 

MERMAIDS  AND  LAMIAS 
LA  BELLE  MORTE 

PART  IV. 
THE  MIRACLES 
SALOME 
THE  MONK  is  JUDAS 

PART  V. 

THE  PLAYHOUSE 

A  DREAM  OF  HEROIC  LOVE 

A  BLUE-EYED  GIRL  IN  VIRGO 

THE  CONCERT:  HARMONICS 

MERETRIX:  SENTIMENTAL 

CITY  NIGHT 

EPILOGUE  OF  FORSLIN 


THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN 


THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN 

PART  I. 

i. 

In  the  clear  evening,  as  the  lamps  were  lighted, 
Forslin,  sitting  alone  in  his  strange  world, 
Meditated;  yet  through  his  musings  heard 
The  dying  footfalls  of  the  tired  day 
Monotonously  ebb  and  ebb  away 
Into  the  smouldering  west; 
And  heard  the  dark  world  slowly  come  to  rest. 
Now,  as  the  real  world  dwindled  and  grew  dim, 
His  dreams  came  back  to  him  .  .  . 
Now,  as  one  who  stands 
In  the  aquarium's  gloom,  by  ghostly  sands, 
Watching  the  glide  of  fish  beneath  pale  bubbles, — 
The  bubbles  quietly  streaming 
Cool  and  white  and  green  .  .  .  poured  in  silver  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  if  this  were  wake  or  dreaming; 
Rut  thought  to  lean,  reach  out  his  hands,  and  swim. 

[13] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Some  things  there  were,  that,  being  remembered  clearly,. 

Pierced  with  a  troubling  gleam 

His  lucid  dream: 

As, — that  he  had  stepped  in  from  a  blare  of  sunlight 

Over  the  watery  threshold  to  this  gloom ; 

Sharp  red  roofs;  blue  sky;  rich  autumn  trees 

Shaking  their  gold  out  on  the  breeze; 

And  then,  after  eternities  had  vanished, 

That  he  was  oldish,  and  that  his  name  was  Forslin,. 

And  that  he  sat  in  a  small  bare  gaslit  room  .  .  . 

In  the  mute  evening,  as  the  music  sounded, 
Each  voice  of  it,  weaving  gold  or  silver, 
Seemed  to  open  a  separate  door  for  him  .  .  . 
Suave  horns  eluded  him  down  corridors; 
Persuasive  violins 
Sang  of  nocturnal  sins ; 
And  ever  and  again  came  the  hoarse  clash 
Of  cymbals;  as  a  voice  that  swore  of  murder. 
Which  way  to  choose,  in  all  this  labyrinth? 
Did  all  lead  in  to  the  self  same  chamber? 

[14] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

No  matter:  he  would  go  ... 

In  the  evening,  as  the  music  sounded; 

Streaming  swift  and  thin,  or  huddled  slow  .  .  . 


Coffee-cups  and  artificial  palm-trees ; 

Cigarette-tips  glowing  in  the  shadows; 

And  the  mellow  gleams  in  polished  marble  floors. 

The  ceaseless  footsteps  clashed  on  the  cold  marble, 

The  sinister  footman  turned  the  revolving  doors. 

And  there  was  he,  sitting  alone  in  silence, 

Hearing  his  heart  tick  out  the  hours; 

The  futile  watcher,  chronicle  of  dead  days ; 

While  the  dancers  whirled  and  danced, 

And  the  murderers  chose  their  knives, 

And  the  lovers  leaned,  to  kiss,  through  laurel  flowers. 


The  palm-trees  trembled  faintly  on  the  music — 

Stirred  by  an  undertone. 

Or  rose  this  music  only  in  his  brain? 

The  eyes  of  women,  the  fans,  the  jewelled  fingers, 

[15] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The   soon-checked   smiles,   the    swift   words   lost   in 

laughter, 

Coffee  and  cigarettes  ...    He  sat  alone. 
The  sea  of  twilight  swept  his  heart  again. 


And  now  as  one  who  stands 

In  the  aquarium's  green,  by  cloudy  sands, 

Watching  the  glide  of  fish  beneath  soft  bubbles,— 

The  bubbles  briefly  streaming, 

Cold  and  white  .  .  .  poured  in  silver  .  .  . 

He  did  not  know  if  this  were  wake  or  dreaming: 

But  thought  to  lean,  reach  out  his  hands,  and  swim. 


ii. 

Let  us  drown,  then,  if  to  drown  is  but  to  change*. 
Drown  in  the  days  of  those  whose  days  are  strange; 
Close  our  eyes,  and  drown  ; 
Wearily,  without  effort,  at  our  leisure, 
In  some  strange  sea-pool,  lit  with  sun  and  treasure, 

[16] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Sink  slowly  down 

From  the  bright  waves  above  our  phantom  hands 

To  vales  of  twilight  sands  .  .  . 


Grown  weary  of  ourselves,  these  tedious  hours, 

Our  voices,  our  eternal  pulses  drumming, 

Our  doubts,  our  hesitations,  our  regrets, 

And  the  shrinking  self  that  sits  within  and  cowers  .  .  . 

Let  us  descend  in  some  strange  sea-pool ; 

Creep  through  the  caves  to  hear  the  great  tide  coming ; 

Forget  our  souls  that  murmur  of  unpaid  debts. 

I  heard  a  story,  once,  of  one  who  murdered, 
For  what,  I  cannot  remember;  but  he  murdered. 
With  a  knife's  greedy  edge,  or  with  white  hands — 
What  does  it  matter?    The  swift  deed  was  done  .  .  . 
That  was  a  sombre  sea-pool  to  explore — 
Strange  things  are  on  that  floor. 


And  once,  the  music  I  was  listening  to 

[17] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Suddenly  opened,  like  a  luminous  book, 

To  one  bright  page  that  told  of  a  strange  thing : 

A  man  stepped  out  in  the  purple  of  an  arc-light, 

A  man  I  knew — I  knew  him  well — 

And  because  the  harlot  he  loved  had  jilted  him, 

He  held  his  breath,  and  died. 


Was  I  that  man  ?    How  should  I  know  ? 

Yet,  when  I  die,  that  man  will  die  with  me. 

Deep  music  now,  with  lap  and  flow, 

Green -music  streaked  with  gleams  and  bubbles  of  light, 

Bears  me  softly  away.    Come  down  with  me!  ... 

We  will  live  strange  lives  before  this  night. 


in. 

The  corners  of  the  ceiling  are  blown  like  mist, 
Are  gathered  in  lazy  swirls  and  blown  away. 
My  eyes  are  fixed  upon  a  single  picture: 

This,  only,  seems  to  stay. 

[18] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

An  old  man  lurching  slowly  out  of  darkness, 
A  bag  upon  his  shoulders  growing  monstrous  .  .  . 
Now  he  is  gone,  before  I  see  his  face. 
I  am  spread  upon  a  fog,  and  know  no  place. 

The  yellow  footlights  blazing  before  my  feet; 

The  same  familiar  curving  wall  of  fire. 

Soft  music  trembles  sweet  .  .  . 

Below  me  and  above  me  turn  the  faces, 

Rows  on  rows  of  luminous  living  faces, 

And  the  furtive  watchful  eyes ; 

I  stand  before  them,  somehow  grown  eternal ; 

They  smile  upon  me  from  their  eternal  places ; 

And  now,  at  the  chosen  moment,  the  music  dies. 

You  see  me :    I  am  plain :   and  growing  baldish. 
The  clothes  I  wear  are  old,  but  carefully  kept. 
You  do  not  know — indeed,  how  should  you  know  ? — 
That  for  years  I  have  hardly  eaten,  hardly  slept, — 
To  learn  this  thing.    That  does  not  matter,  to  you. 
You  yawn,  and  wait  to  see  what  I  can  do. 

[19] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

When  I  was  young,  juggling  was  all  I  did: 
I  was  the  best  of  them; 

But  growing  older,  I  wanted  something  better. 
To  do  the  impossible !    That  was  the  question. 
And  so  I  left  the  stage,  and  after  months, 
I  thought  of  this — lying  in  bed  one  night — 
It  seemed  ridiculous,  too,  it  was  so  simple. 
To  balance  one  ball  on  another  ball — 
Tossing  the  upper  one,  to  catch  it,  falling, 
In  easy  balance  again — that  was  the  thing! 
I  started  in  next  day. 


Well,  sir,  you  wouldn't  believe  how  hard  it  was. 
Mind  you,  I  wasn't  a  greenhorn,  but  an  expert — 
Made  balls,  or  cards,  or  hoops,  or  wooden  bottles, 
Do  anything  but  talk.    But  this,  by  heaven, 
This  was  a  man's  job!    And  it  took  me  years. 


Practice,  practice,  practice!    That's  all  it  was. 
Three  times  a  year  I  took  the  stage  again 

[20] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

To  earn  the  money  to  keep  alive  with: 
Used  the  old  tricks,  of  course,  though  getting  rusty. 
Then  I'd  get  off  once  more,  and  find  a  room 
With  a  high  ceiling,  for  plenty  of  space, 
And  go  to  work  again.    It  was  three  years 
Before  I  got  that  balancing  down  cold — 
The  balancing,  not  the  tossing :  just  to  balance 
The  one  ball  on  the  other,  and  keep  it  there  .  .  . 
Then  came  the  tossing.    That  was  harder. 
Sometimes,  by  God,  I  thought  I  was  going  crazy ! 
My  brain  was  full  of  crashing  marble  balls. 
I'd  reach  out  every  direction  and  try  to  catch  them — 
I  could'nt,  of  course, — they'd  all  crash  to  the  floor, 
And  keep  on  banging  till  my  heart  fell  dead. 
It  seemed  as  if  my  mind  was  a  dark  room, 
With  a  ceiling  much  too  low;  and  every  time 
I  flung  a  ball  up,  a  million  hit  that  ceiling. 
They  hit  the  gas-jet.     They  broke  the  foolish  lamp 
shades. 

I  was  always  getting  ousted  for  breaking  things, 
Denting  the  ceiling,  cracking  the  plaster  and  walls. 

[21] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  lady  who  lived  above  me  complained  of  the  noise: 

So  did  the  man  who  lived  below  me. 

For  five  years  more  I  seemed  to  be  always  moving — 

Always  cramming  my  collars  into  a  bag, 

And  searching  the  columns  of  furnished  rooms. 

In  ten  years,  though,  I  had  the  thing  down  perfect. 

Ten  years !    I  was  over  forty,  and  growing  grey. 

I  hadn't  married  because  I  hadn't  dared  to — 

No  money  for  it.     It  was  taking  chances. 

Though  as  for  that,  I  suppose  I  might  have  married, 

A  girl  I  met  down  south,  doing  a  sketch — 

I  liked  her — she  was  willing,  more  than  willing ; 

But   I  had  this  thing  so  on  my  mind,  you  see, 

I  couldn't  be  bothered,  somehow,  and  let  it  go. 

I  took  my  trick  to  the  agents — and  they  went  crazy. 
They  said  they'd  never  seen  a  trick  to  touch  it : 
O,  nothing  to  it !     It  was  easy  getting  it  on. 
One  man  only — by  George,  I  laughed  at  him ! — 
Said  the  thing  looked  too  easy,  and  wouldn't  take. 

[22] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

But  they  gave  me  a  little  advance  for  a  suit  of  clothes- 
I  needed  it — and,  finally,  set  the  night. 


All  this,  you  see,  is  what  is  standing  before  you — 
Only,  that  you  don't  know  it,  and  I  can't  tell  you. 
You  see  me :  I  am  plain :  and  growing  baldish. 
For  me,  you  are  rows  of  faces,  lazy  eyes. 
What  does  it  matter,  to  you,  who  entertains  you  ?  .  . 


Now,  at  the  chosen  moment,  the  music  dies  .  .  . 


I  balance  the  one  ball  on  the  other- 
It  seems  so  simple — and  toss  it  up,  and  catch  it 
In  easy  balance  .  .  .     (My  God!) 


I'll  do  it  again — for  Christ's  sake  watch  me  this  time! 
I  balance  the  one  ball  on  the  other  .  .  . 
Dip  it,  and  toss  it  up,  and  softly  catch  it 

[23] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

In  easy  balance  again  ...  I  toss  it  and  catch  it  ... 

I  walk  around  and  keep  it  balancing  there  .  .  . 

I  toss  it  and  catch  it  ...  And  all  the  hands  are  silent ! 


What  is  it  I  am  trying  to  balance — brains? 

Or  a  foolish  human  life? 

There's  the  curtain  falling— and  I  am  over. 

I  will  breathe  gas  tonight  in  a  locked  room, 

And  forget  those  faces  .  .  . 

Get  out  of  my  way!     I'm  going  home. 


IV. 

That  window,  in  which  you  saw  the  light  winked  out 
Behind  the  yellow  shades — was  that  his  room? 
Tomorrow,  we'll  search  the  papers  .  .  .  Tonight  blows 

cold  .  .  . 

Where  shall  we  turn,  among  bright  cobblestones? 
This  white  carnation  I  wear  is  growing  old  .  .  . 

[24] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  have  spent  years  at  something ;  and  I  am  tired. 
Let  us  lounge  in  a  bright  cafe,  and  listen  to  music — 
Music,  threading  the  smoke  of  cigarettes  .  .  . 
Vermouth,  then  coffee  .  .  .     How  much  shall  we  tip 

the  waiter? 
Here  the  fatigued  mind  wanders  and  forgets. 


1  walked  by  the  river,  once,  and  heard  the  waves 
Slapping  the  sunlit  stones  .  .  .  But  was  that  I? 
Or  was  it  I  who  saw  a  pigeon  falling 
Down  a  sheer  tower  wall  against  the  sky? 
Or  was  it  I  who  heard  one  night  the  rain 
Weaving  in  silver  an  intricate  pattern  of  pain? 


These  things  are  idle — they  do  not  matter. 

If  I  was  born  at  midnight  or  high  noon, — 

Then,  or  now,  or  tomorrow,  and  to  whom — 

Is  this  so  relevant?     Or  is  it  chatter? 

My  friends,  believe  me — it  is  more  worth  while 

To  lean  for  the  moment  into  dream,  and  smile. 

[25] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

v. 

Yes ;  this  is  manifest :  a  suicide ; 

The  gas  still  hissing.     Open  the  windows  wide  .  .  . 


He  closed  the  door  and  locked  it ;  and  he  heard, 
In  a  sudden  backward  yearning  of  his  mind, 
His  own  slow  steps  knock  wearily  up  the  stairs. 
Should  he  light  the  gas,  then  turn  it  out  again? 
Survey  once  more  the  bed,  the  floor,  the  chairs?  .  . 


He  saw  himself  limp  down  the  windy  street, 

Bending  his  face  against  the  relentless  cold. 

The  sharp  wind  made  him  cry. 

Seen  through  his  tears,  bright  lamps  were  rayed  and 

daggered. 
Grey  ghostly  clouds  streamed  over  a  starry  sky. 


He  had  not  dined  tonight,  nor  would  he  dine — 
What,  among  graveyard  friends,  was  bread  or  wine? 

[26] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

He  closed  the  stage-door,  stumbled  in  the  street. 
They  said,  you  turned  deep  blue :  your  tongue  lolled 

out .  .  . 
The  cobblestones  went  dizzy  beneath  his  feet. 


And  now,  in  a  backward  yearning  of  his  mind, 
He  heard  his  own  harsh  steps  rasp  up  the  stairs, 
Thrust  the  remorseless  key  in,  lit  the  gas, 
Regarded,  motionless,  the  floor,  the  chairs  .  .  . 


A  small  room :  small  and  dull :  yet  large  enough. 
Space  for  the  living :  and  more  than  space  for  the  dead. 
The  ceiling  cracked — no  matter.     It  was  old. 
There  was  the  window,  with  the  shade  drawn  down. .  . 
There  were  his  hat  and  coat,  laid  on  the  bed. 


And  now,  with  thumb  and  finger  he  turned  twice 
The  foolish  valve  that  brought  a  double  darkness — ; 
And  would  he  wait,  in  comfort,  in  a  chair? 

[27] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Or,  running  the  yellow  shade  up,  through  the  window 
Watch  cold  stars  play  tragedy  out  there? 


A  cab  went  by,  and ,  rumbled  into  distance ; 
The  hollow  ringing  hooves  echoed  and  echoed, 
In  perfect  rhythm,  always,  growing  faint 
So  went  his  pulse-beats  down  remote  dark  alleys, 
With  a  far  rhythmic  echo,  like  complaint. 


He  listened  for  them  .  .  .  they  beat,  they  beat  .  .  .  and 

beat; 

A  little  curl  of  dust,  a  golden  vapor, 
Idly  floating  upward  from  every  one. 
Upon  what  streaming  road,  what  cloudy  river, 
Did  those  wild  horses  run  ? 


Someone,  once,  tried  to  juggle  with  stars, 

Tried  to  balance  a  sun  upon  a  moon, 

But  found,  at  last,  the  sun  was  much  too  big  .  .  . 

[28] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Or  was  it  that  the  moon  was  much  too  small? 
There  would  be  flaming  death  if  it  should  fall. 
It  fell.    And  a  billion  devils  danced  a  jig. 

No:  it  was  someone  learning  to  swallow  fire — 

Strangling  to  death. 

Someone  trying,  in  a  great  gust  of  flame, 

To  draw  one  deep  cool  breath  .  .  . 

No  use,  of  course.    If  fire  once  got  within, 

It  would  consume  him  all. 

But  this  was  peace,  this  darkness! — like  old  music, 

Music  heard  in  a  dream ;  or  hid  in  a  wall ; 

Like  a  slow  music,  moving  under  a  sea, 

A  waveless  music,  seethed  and  frothed  with  starlight. 

Desireless ;  cold ;  and  dead  .  .  . 

His  hands  were  tightly  clasped  beneath  his  head. 


[29] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

VI. 

Death,  among  violins  and  paper  roses, 
Leering  upon  a  waltz,  in  evening  dress, 
Taking  his  lady's  arm  with  bow  and  smile.  .  . 
This  is  unreal.    Let  us  pull  off  our  gloves : 
Open  the  doors,  and  take  the  air  a  while. 


Death  would  be  sweet,  if  one  might  poison  music- 
Feel  a  rich  rhythm,  with  its  freight  of  languor, 
Feeding  under  the  heart  with  every  beat: 
Faint  with  a  waltz  in  the  blood, 
Laugh  and  topple  and  fall, 
Feel  the  cold  marble  flush  beneath  soft  feet  . 


Frivolous  death !     He  plays  at  cards,  drinks  coffee, 
Sips  a  cordial,  or  asks  his  partner  the  time. 
He  straightens  his  cuffs,  flicks  off  an  ash,  is  silent, 
Lowers  his  eyes,  and  muses  on  a  crime. 


Well,  no  matter.     We  deal  in  juxtapositions. 

[30] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

We  cry  and  love,  we  laugh  and  hate. 

I  think  of  a  shrewd  blade  hidden  inside  my  brain ; 

And  crumple  a  roseleaf  while  I  meditate. 


And  while  in  the  warm  dark  seats,  we  watch  the  spot 
light 

Dazzle  upon  the  singer's  hair  and  eyes, 

The  pink  tongue,  and  the  diamonds  on  her  fingers, — 

Out  in  the  hall,  an  epileptic  lies 

On  the  white  stone.    The  usher  lifts  his  head: 

The  young  man  laughs  at  the  crowd  and  falls  back 
dead. 


VII. 

Things  mused  upon  are,  in  the  mind,  like  music, 
They  flow,  they  have  a  rhythm,  they  close  and  open, 
And  sweetly  return  upon  themselves  in  rhyme. 
Against  the  darkness  they  are  woven, 
They  are  lost  for  a  little,  and  laugh  again, 
They  fall  or  climb. 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Here,  it  rains.     The  small  clear  bubbles 

Pelt  and  scatter  along  the  shimmering  flagstones, 

Leap  and  sing. 

Streaks  of  silver  slant  from  the  eaves, 

The  sparrow  puffs  his  feathers  beneath  broad  leaves 

And  preens  a  darkened  wing. 


Yet  round  a  windy  corner  of  the  mind, 
A  block  away,  or  at  the  selfsame  place, — 
We  meet  you  face  to  face. 

You  cough  with  the  dust,  we  hear  you  say  once  more, 
There  in  the  shadow  of  a  deserted  door, 
You  are  cold,  you  have  no  money,  and  you  are  hungry. 
You  open  your  purse  to  show  us  that  it  is  empty. 
You  are  crying;  and  that  is  strange,  for  you  are  a 
whore. 


.  .  .  Bubbles  of  soft  rain  scurrying  over  a  pavement, — 

Slanting  from  dark  eaves — 

Where  did  I  see  a  sparrow  beneath  broad  leaves  ?  .  .  . 

[32] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 
Well,  take  us  home  with  you ;  and  when  we  have  loved 

you, 

(Stroked  your  drowsy  hair,  your  subtle  flesh, 
And  held  your  golden  throat  in  the  palms  of  hands) 
When  we  have  loved  you,  and  rise 
Once  more  into  mortal  evening  out  of  your  eyes, 
We  will  both  give  you  money ;  and  you  may  go 
To  order  peacocks'  tongues,  or  a  little  snow. 


.  .  .  There  is  a  seethe  of  foam  far  over  our  hands 

On  the  pale  surface  .  .  . 

We  glide  above  our  shadows  along  the  sands  .  .  . 


If  you  are  really  so  tired,  take  my  arm. 

Is  this  your  door?  .  .  .    Give  me  the  key. 

Why  don't  you  sell  these  hangings  if  you  are  poor? 

You  deserve  to  be. 


.  .  .  Something  about  your  skin  is  like  soft  rain— 

[33] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Cool  and  clear  ...  it  reminds  me  of  many  things. 
Your  eyes,  they  are  like  blue  wells  of  pain — 
I  remember  a  sparrow  preening  his  rainy  wings  .  .  . 
He  sat  under  broad  leaves,  puffing  his  feathers  and 

winking  .  .  . 
What  are  you  thinking? 


Now  that  you're  here — there's  no  use  in  your  going  .  .  . 
Wait  till  the  morning.  When  we  have  loved  we'll  sleep. 
Sleep  is  better  than  wine ;  and  hunger  will  keep. 


.  .  .  Rain,  rain,  rain.     All  night  the  rain. 
The  roofs  are  wet,  the  eaves  drip. 
The  pelted  leaves  bend  down  and  rise  again. 
The  bubbles  chirp  and  skip. 

This  is  spring.    The  snowdrops  start  to  grow, 
The  rain  will  wash  them  clean. 
This  is  spring,  the  warm  drops  wound  the  snow, 
The  black  earth  aches  with  green  .  .  . 

[34] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  now  that  it  is  morning,  we  will  go. 
What  do  we  care  for  you — you,  only  a  whore? 
Starve  if  you  like!    You'll  have  to  end  it  sometime. 
There  will  be  plenty  more. 

Sell  your  hangings,  pawn  your  dress,  your  ear-rings. 
What  do  we  care?    You  knew  we  wouldn't  pay. 
That's  right,  cry!    It'll  make  you  feel  much  better, — 
Meanwhile,  we  go  our  way  .  .  . 

The  lamps  are  turned  out  on  the  music  racks, 

The  concert  ends,  the  people  rise, 

The  applause  behind  us  roars  like  rain  on  a  roof, 

The  great  doors  close.    We  shrink  beneath  blue  skies. 

Was  this  a  music?     Or  did  I  hear  a  story? 

Yet  I  remember  well  that  hair,  those  eyes  .  .  . 

And  much  besides,  that,  nimble  even  as  music, 

Sings,  flashes,  is  gone  .  .  . 

For  a  million  years  the  gods  have  been  telling  me 

secrets. 
I  do  not  remember  one. 

[35] 


PART  II. 

I. 

Let  us  succumb  to  a  soft  blue  wave  of  music: 
Endure  its  pressure,  let  it  explore  our  souls, 
Inquisitive,  cold,  and  strange. 
We  will  pay  no  heed  to  a  plaintive  bell  that  tolls 
Far  over  our  heads,  in  sunlight  .  .  .  forever  restless 
But  yield  our  depths  to  the  silent  flow  of  change. 


Here  all  is  dark,  all  leans  upon  the  stream. 
Here  we  may  flow  from  opiate  sound  to  sound, 
Embodied  in  music.    Here  we  may  live  our  dream. 
Here  is  no  striving,  no  choosing.    We  do  not  know 
Whither  we  drift,  but  shut  our  eyes  and  go. 


I  have  surrendered  my  heart  to  chords  of  sound, 

Sweet  successions  of  falling  sound ; 

A  star  is  snared  in  sinister  boughs  of  twilight 

[36] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Against  a  pale  green  sky. 

I  have  surrendered  my  soul  to  a  pleading  music; 

I  drink  a  poison  of  melody  and  I  die. 


Here  are  hands  I  reached  from  the  dust  to  touch, 
Eyes  I  loved  in  the  darkness  and  left  behind. 
Here,  un forgotten  mouths  I  never  kissed. 
I  tried  with  hands  to  brush  aside  a  mist  .  .  . 
Come,  let  us  flow  with  the  music,  and  seek,  and  find. 


Once  I  loved ;  and  once  I  died ;  and  once 

I  murdered  my  lover,  my  lover  who  had  betrayed  me. 

Once  I  stepped  from  the  threshold,  and  saw  my  body 

Huddled  in  purple  snow. 

Once  I  escaped  my  flesh  and  rose  on  starlight. 

The  theme  returns  .  .  .    We  bow  our  hearts  and  go. 


One  night,  1  swam  with  pilgrims  by  the  moon, 
Swam  by  moonlight  in  a  wide  blue  river; 

[37] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

A  field  of  flax  in  flower. 
I  drowned  among  the  stalks,  the  tossing  stars. 
I  breathed  green  foam.    I  was  covered  with  seethe  of 
leaves  . 


But  who  was  he  I  left  behind  me,  waiting 

There  on  the  platform,  reading  an  evening  paper? 

He  looked  up  once,  to  see  if  it  would  rain  .  .  . 

Great   leaves    are   turned   between    us.      Moons   are 

scattered. 
The  theme  recurs  .  .  .  And  we  drift  on  again. 


ii. 

If  we  should  rise  from  whirl  to  silver  whirl, 
Through  yellowing  light  to  a  faintly  chiming  surface, 
And  shatter  the  film  .  .  .  what  discords  should  we 

hear?  . . . 

Monstrous  shadows  blot  and  disintegrate; 
The  stars  above  our  earth  are  cold  and  clear ; 

[38] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  we  walk,  as  we  have  walked  a  thousand  times, 
Past  trees  and  curbs  and  gutters, 
Mark  how  the  arc-lamp  dims  and  starts  and  sputters, 
I  Muse  bewitching  scandals,  ponder  crimes, 
Laugh  with  a  friend,  concealing  what  we  think, 
Or  sit,  to  chat  and  drink. 


Someone  has  been  to  have  his  fortune  told — 
With  Tarot  cards.    The  pentacles  and  wands 
Tell  him  he  hates  the  women,  and  is  cold. 
He  laughs,  we  laugh, — we  wonder  if  he  lies, 
Watching  a  wizened  question  in  his  eyes. 


And  if  he  lies,  and  if  last  night  he  slept 
With  some  flushed  harlot,  or  his  latest  lover, 
We  muse  upon  him,  and  marvel  what  it  is 
That  yields  his  banal  soul  these  ecstasies : 


Is  it  his  voice  that  sets  a  woman  trembling, 

[39] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  hesitant  speech,  the  sidelong  trick  of  eyes, 
The  heavy  brow,  the  dead  white  skin? 
Or  is  he  all  the  while  dissembling, — 
Like  us,  though  starved,  incapable  of  sin? 

We  chronicle  his  speech,  and  afterwards 
Confer  upon  him  .  .  .    We  ravel  out  his  brain. 
We  have  remembered  certain  curious  words 
He  uttered  once  when  drinking:  these  explain  .  .  . 
Priests  of  dissection  are  we:  we  dissect  him. 
It  is  ourselves  have  pain,  but  pleasant  pain. 

And  so,  good-night.    The  white  clouds  gulf  the  stars, 

Dust  blows  down  the  street, 

Through  divers  moonlit  canyons  glide  our  feet. 


[40] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

in. 

Before  us  ghostly  paths  flow  into  the  darkness, 
Slant  upon  windy  darkness,  weave  and  gleam. 
Or  are  they  climbs  of  music,  half-remembered? 
Or  do  we  gaze  at  some  unsteady  dream? 

This  is  the  night  for  murder:  Get  us  knives: 
We  have  long  sought  for  this. 
What  queen,  tonight,  is  murdered  with  a  kiss? 
What  kings  tonight  shall  forfeit  their  rash  lives? 
Rosamund,  with  a  red  skull  in  her  hands; 
Helen  in  starlight,  watching  beacons  flare ; 
Or  Cleopatra,  combing  her  blue-black  hair  .  .  . 

She  lies  before  me,  smiling.    She  has  betrayed  me  .  .  . 
Her  flesh  was  sweeter  to  me  than  orange-blossoms, 
Her  hair  more  marvellous  to  me  than  night. 
Her  voice  was  a  breaking  of  golden  ripples, 
I  stood  in  her  eyes  as  in  a  sea  of  light. 
I  loved  her  for  all  these  things  .  .  .     But  she  has  be 
trayed  me. 

[41] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Tell  them  to  play  loud  music  in  the  hall — 
Blow  horns,  beat  drums,  and  strike  on  brass  .  .  . 
No  one  shall  hear  us  now.    We  are  hidden  in  tumult. 

I  would  remind  you  of  our  wedding-night, 
Of  the  sweet  music  we  listened  to  through  love  .  .  . 
But  you  demur,  just  as  I  hoped:  you  say 
'Why  talk  of  that?' — pretending  modesty; 
And  sigh,  and  drop  your  eyes  .  .  .    Yes,  you  remember 
My  mouth  upon  your  eyelids,  and  it  disgusts  you. 
For  now  you  have  found  a  mouth  you  desire  much 
more. 

This  purple  silk  that  suits  your  throat  so  well — 
(How  I  have  loved  that  throat!     It  dazzles  me.) 
And  these  jade  scarabs  trembling  from  your  ears: 
Do  you  remember  when  I  gave  them  to  you? 
And  how  you  clung  to  me? 
And  do  you  remember  dropping  from  your  hair 
White  hyacinth  flowers?  .  .  . 

[42] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

No,  you  are  musing — you  stare,  but  do  not  see : 

Your  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  foolish  fountain ; 

You  seem  to  listen:  hearing  whose  voice,  I  wonder? 


I  would  remind  you  of  the  day  we  walked 

Beside  the  river,  twisting  each  other's  hands — 

Queer,  what  a  pang  can  be  in  the  flesh  of  hands  !— 

And  saw  white  pigeons  flying  across  the  water, 

And  golden  flakes  of  light  dancing  in  azure, 

And  broad  pale  streams  of  sun  poured  down  the  west. 

We  were  both  young.    The  world  lay  luminous: 

Every  petal  and  cobweb  trembled  music  .  .  . 

Do  you   remember — or  is  this   commonplace? 

And  do  I — perhaps — touch  things  you  would  forget? 


You  guess  I  am  angry — I  have  betrayed  myself. 
You  open  your  eyes,  startled,  a  little  wider — 
Things  are  unfolding  here  you  did  not  dream  of. 
Do  you  divine  the  virgin  knife,  perhaps  .  .  .   ? 
What  was  I  going  to  say  ...  O  yes,  the  time 

[43] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  saw  you  first  ...  so  many  years  ago  .  .  . 
My  God,  how  innocent  your  eyes  looked,  tool- 
All  in  white,  by  the  palace  door,  you  stood, 
Talking  with  some  young  thing, 
Until  you  saw  me  come,  and  turned  your  head 
In  an  absent  way  to  dart  my  eyes  with  yours  .  .  . 
There  was  your  whole  soul  in  that  little  trick — 
I  could  not  see  it,  then  ...    I  see  it  now. 


Why  has  the  music  stopped  ?    I  gave  no  order. 

Let  it  continue.    Not  the  strings, 

But  horns  and  drums.    And  gnashing  of  brass  .  .  . 

They    say    young    what's-his-narae — you    know,    the 

captain — 

Has  come  to  town  again.     O,  don't  you  know  him? 
I  thought  you  did.    But  then,  it's  no  great  matter. 
His  quarters  are  not  so  spacious  as  they  were, 
And  somewhat  dark  ,  .  .    And  yet  he  was  reputed 
A  man  of  fabulous  wealth !    And  many  ladies, 
(Or  so  they  say,) 

[44] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Wear  costly  favors  from  him — rings  and  bracelets — 
Why  do  you  hide  your  hand? — and  such  like  trifles. 

You  are  pale.     I  have  mentioned  something  that  con 
cerns  you. 

Was  it  this  captain?  ...    I  hope  you  notice 
I  use  the  past  tense,  now,  in  -speaking  of  him. 
Yes,  it's  a  pity — he  was  full  of  promise — 
Quick  of  eye,  though  somewhat  tardy  of  arm  .  .  . 
And  think  of  all  the  ladies  with  broken  hearts! 

Sit  still,  my  dear.     It's  no  use  running  now. 

You  guess  my  purpose :  and,  surely,  you  give  me  credit 

For  planning  all  details  with  scrupulous  care ! 

The  doors  are  locked — the    curtains    drawn    across 

them — 

No  one  would  hear  you  if  you  beat  upon  them. 
And  even  if  you  could  scream,  in  so  great  terror, 
Could  you  scream  louder  than  horns  and  cymbals  and 

gongs? 

You  should  have  been  a  player,  and  played  to  music. 

[45] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

How  well  you  mimic  horror!    Your  stretched  eyes 

Almost  persuade  me  that  you  understand  me ! 

Now,  will  you  take  death  quietly, — or  with  struggle? 

Take  my  advice :  let  it  be  soft  and  certain — 

Surrender  to  it,  make  it  a  suicide — 

A  slow  thin  push  at  the  heart,  and  then,  red  darkness. 


This  is  a  pity :  I  loved  you.    I  will  not  blame  you, 

Now  that|  it's  all  too  late. 

This  little  knife,  for  the  moment,  is  my  tongue. 

But  we  were  happy,  in  our  season, — 

And  it  is  you  who  shaped  this  end. 

Here's  my  knife — between  my  fingers  I  press  it, 
And  into  the  panic  heart  .  .  . 

Do  you  still  hear  the  music?    Do  you  still  see  me? 
Do  wide  lights  swim  and  dazzle  before  your  eyes? 

Make  haste,  great  queen!     The  darkness  opens   for 
you  .  .  . 

[46] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Now  they  can  stop  their  music.     1  am  tired. 

Shall  I  withdraw  the  knife, — or  leave  it  there?  .  .  . 


IV. 

We  move  in  the  music,  and  are  one  with  it. 
You  close  your  eyes,  your  fan  against  my  arm. 
Sometimes,  I  have  thought  this  tongue  of  yours  had 
wit. 


But  are  you  real,  in  spite  of  lips  and  eyes, 

And  the  webbed  hair  translucent  against  the  light — 

You,  who  upon  this  music  fall  and  rise? 

What  would  you  say  if  as  we  smoothly  turn 

To  the  slow  waltz  that  beats  these  walls,  this  floor; 

Or  as  we  wave  past  palm-trees  through  the  door; 

If  I  should  mildly  observe,  as  commonplace, 

'Yes,  I  murdered  my  wife  this  afternoon'  .  .  . 

Would  you  think  me  out  of  tune? 

[47] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

My  hands  are  red  with  murder,  if  you  could  see  them — 

Or  were  they  certain  hands  inside  my  brain  ? 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  .  .  . 

Two  lovers,  once,  went  walking  beside  a  river: 

There  was  a  white  cloak  and  a  wet  red  stain  . 


And  a  blade  comes  gliding  in  along  the  music. 
Between  the  pulses. — What  becomes  of  it? 
Does  it  only  cut  the  page, — or  pierce  a  heart?  .  .  . 
The  hypocritical  music  sighs  and  turns. 
It  murmurs  of  palms,  of  artificial  ferns. 

And  now  there  are  horns  and  drums,  they  strike  on 

silver, 

Cymbals  are  smitten,  great  gongs  clang: 
It  is  as  if  they  did  it  to  drown  a  murder. 
They  deafen  the  air  with  clamor,  they  hide  a  scream  .  .  . 
Do  I  dance  or  murder  now?    Or  do  I  dream? 


No,  this  was  real,  this  murder — she  is  there, 

[48] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Lying  among  her  roses  where  I  left  her, 
With  her  eyes  closed  and  a  pale  rose  in  her  hair 
And  you,  with  whom  I  dance, — or  think  I  dance,- 
Thin  out  and  vanish  like  sound  upon  still  air. 


v. 

This  dust  I  softly  blow  across  my  hand, 
Fibreless  now,  was  the  soft  woven  fragrance 
She  threw  about  her  throat  as  evening  came. 
Here  are  the  rings.    Here  is  a  comb  of  amber. 
Here,  the  small  silver  plate  that  tells  her  name. 
There  is  no  trace  of  blood,  here  in  the  dust — 
No  trace  of  violence.    Dust  is  most  discreet. 
All  that  is  hinted  is  sedate  and  sweet. 

A  goblin-ring  of  junipers  marks  the  place — 
Half  way  up  the  hillside.    I  remember 
How  white,  beside  the  juniper,  was  her  face  . 
There  is  a  graveyard  look  to  juniper — 
Furtive  and  sinister. 

[49] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

It  sidles  out  of  the  graves  to  keep  an  eye 

On  the  black  crows  that  caw  beneath  this  sky. 


There  is  no  need  that  murder  should  be  known. 
Murderers  are  foolish.    In  their  panic, 
They  leave  a  scarf,  a  handkerchief,  a  knife, 
The  newly  purchased  pistol,  on  the  floor — 
And  leaving  this,  of  course,  they  leave  much  more. 


Once,  I  killed  a  priest,  before  his  altar, 
With  his  own  crucifix — 

Smashed  through  a  stained  glass  window,  in  the  moon 
light, 

To  steal  the  silver  chalice,  the  candlesticks  .  .  . 
They  tracked  my  footsteps  through  the  snow, 
I  heard  them  coming,  and  hid  in  a  door — 
And  I  struck  one  down  with  the  heavy  candlestick, 
But  what  was  one  to  four?  .  .  . 
The  rest  is  vague.    I  saw  it  long  ago. 

[50] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  once  I  murdered,  by  the  waterfront: 

A  drunken  sailor,  in  a  peg-house  brawl. 

We  were  all  drinking,  and   laughing,  and  having  a 

love- feast, 

And  somehow  got  to  quarreling  after  a  while. 
Maybe  it  was  jealousy — I  don't  know. 
But  all  of  a  sudden  this  boy  went  red  with  rum, 
I  saw  his  little  eyes  shut  up  and  burn, 
'By  God,'  he  says,  Til  fix  you!'— He  pulls  a  knife 
And  runs  for  me,  with  his  slavering  mouth  wide  open. 


All  the  rest  were  lying  around  the  floor 
Half  soused,  and  naked,  and  all  too  scared  to  help. 
In  the  smoky  light  I  jumped  across  pale  bodies, 
Stepped  on  -somebody's  hand  and  heard  him  yell, 
Tripped  over  somebody's  leg,  went  sprawling  headlong, 
But  somehow  managed  to  get  behind  a  table 
Just  before  he  reached  me.    1  grabbed  the  lamp, 
One  of  those  heavy  glass  ones,  and  let  him  have  it 
Smash  in  the  forehead.     And  he  dropped  without  a 
whimper. 

[51] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

It  crushed  his  brain  in,  oh  it  was  something  awful !... 
No  one,  not  even  his  mother,  would  have  known  him. 
So  we  just  slipped  him  quietly  off  the  wharf 
Into  the  river,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 


And  then,  before  I  came  to  peg-house  pimping, — 
Or  was  it  after?    Time  is  confusing  me, 
Time  is  a  circle,  a  snake  that  devours  itself  .  .  . 
For  a  moment  I  peer  up  closely  into  starlight, 
For  a  moment  I  walk  once  more  a  lamplit  street, 
See  all  things  clearly  out  of  time  and  space. 
I  smoke,  and  narrow  my  eyes  to  meditate, 
Hear  music  swell  and  die,  see  coffins  pass, 
Watch  the  blown  daisies  bend  upon  the  grass, 
Glide  through  revolving  doors  to  walk  on  marble, 
To  listen  amused  to  the  swift  uneven  footfalls, 
Or  the  complaints  of  violins  hidden  in  walls ; 
To  climb  at  last  to  a  little  dingy  room, 
Three  flights  up  or  more, 
And  listen,  through  the  loneliness  and  gloom, 
To  the  drowsy  footfalls  of  the  tired  day 

[52] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Monotonously  ebb  and  ebb  away 

Into  the  smouldering  west ; 

And  hear  the  dark  world  slowly  come  to  rest  .  .  . 


And  then,  before  I  came  to  peg-house  pimping, 

Or  maybe  afterwards — what  does  it  matter? 

This  happened;  well,  it  must  have  been  before  .  .  . 

I  smell  the  circus  smell — the  stale  rank  sawdust, 

Hear  elephants  snorting  dust  and  straws; 

I  see  once  more  the  chariots  rumbling  round, 

The     red-mouthed     clown,     the     enormous     crowd 

applauding, 

Trumpets  blowing,  greyhounds  leaping  through  hoops ; 
And  I  see  my  wife,  in  spangles,  with  a  whip  in  her 

hand, 
Chivvying  sullen  leopards  to  their  cages. 


She  left  me,  because  she  liked  the  red-mouthed  clown. 
Both  of  them  quit  the  circus;  and  for  years 

[53] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  hunted  for  them,  swearing  I'd  kill  them  both. 

I  went  on  day  by  day,  doing  my  stunt, — 

The  dive  of  death, — as  if  it  hadn't  happened : 

Twice  a  day  I  took  the  Dive  of  Death, 

Falling  a  hundred  feet  to  a  little  net. 

And  all  the  while  I  nursed  my  grievance,  and  waited. 


At  last  I  found  them:  they  were  still  living  together, 
Drinking  and  starving  there,  with  a  boy  and  a  girl. 
On  a  bright  Sunday  noon  I  went  and  found  them. 
I  knocked  on  the  door.    'Come  in !'    She  said  .  .  . 
And  there  she  was,  feeding  bread  to  a  parrot, 
Thin,  but  looking  the  same;  and  there  was  he 
Rocking  his  head  on  a  scarlet  table-cloth, 
Silly  with  beer.     'Well,  here  I  am,  Marie  !'— 
She  screamed,  and  half  got  up.    The  boy  and  girl 
Came  running  in,  they  grabbed  me  round  the  legs. 
'Harry!'  she  gasped,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks, 
Her  face  grew  redder  and  redder,  she  began  to  gurgle ; 
But  I  locked  my  hands  around  her  dirty  throat, 
And  though  they  bit  me,  I  choked  her  till  she  was  dead. 

[54] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Her  man  looked  up,  and  waved  a  hand  toward  me, 
And  fell  asleep  again.     I  took  the  children 
And  flung  them  down  from  the  balcony  to  the  court 
yard  : 

I  suppose  I  shouldn't  have  done  it.     Then  I  climbed 
Up  on  the  railing,  and  folded  my  arms,  all  ready 
For  one  last  Dive  of  Death.    And  there  they  got  me  ... 
Those    damned    fool    neighbors    heard    the    children 

screaming, 

And  spoiled  the  climax.    And  so  they  marched  me  off 
Through    Sunday   streets,   with   people   coming    from 

church, 

And  bells  tolling,  and  the  May  sun  shining; 
For  the  last  time  I  walked  under  elm-trees  and  oak- 
trees, 
And  saw  the  grass,  and  the  shadows  of  pebbles,  and 

people. 

But  I  had  paid  her  out,  as  I  -said  I  would  .  .  . 
So  what  did  I  care?  My  hands  were  satisfied  .  .  . 


[55" 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

VI. 

Wind  blows :  the  dying  music  recedes  from  me ; 
The  shadows  of  trees  revolve  and  melt  in  the  wind ; 
And  papers  skip  and  pirouette  over  the  grass. 
The  lamps  are  lighted,  the  sea-gulls  drift  to  sea, 
Night  falls  with  a  shrill  of  horns;  or  is  it  daybreak? 
Realities  fade;  dreams  come;  and  dreams  pass. 

No  matter  how  swift  I  run,  the  stars  run  with  me  .  .  . 
Let  us  lounge  in  a  bright  cafe  and  listen  to  music, 
Music,  treading  the  smoke  of  cigarettes. 
For  years   I  have  borne   in  my  heart  a  burden   of 

hatred  ... 
Vermouth,  then  coffee  .  .  .  how  much  should  we  tip  the 

waiter  ? 
Here  the  fatigued  mind  wanders  and  forgets. 


[56] 


PART  III. 

i. 

Now  that  the  sun  flows  over  the  edge  of  the  hills, 
Over  blue  peaks  of  dream, 

And  brightly  again  down  into  the  frosted  meadows, 
We  hear  young  maidens  singing,  and  silently  watch 

them 
Dance   in  the   sharp   light,   wheeling  their  long  blue 

shadows  . 


This  is  as  if  in  the  drowse  of  noon, 

White  petals  trembled  down  from  the  boughs  of  hea 
ven. 

We  stretch  our  hands,  we  close  our  eyes,  we  lift  our 
faces ; 

The  fall  of  the  sun  is  a  poured  music. 

This  is  as  if,  in  the  going  of  twilight, 

[57] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

When  skies  are  pale  and  stars  are  cold, 

Dew  should  rise  from  the  grass  in  little  bubbles, 

And  tinkle  in  music  among  green  leaves. 


Something  immortal  lives  in  such  an  air— 

We  breathe,  we  change. 

Our  bodies  become  as  cold  and  bright  as  starlight, 

Our  hearts  grow  young  and  strange. 


Let  us  extend  ourselves  as  evening  shadows 

And  learn  the  nocturnal  secrets  of  these  meadows. 


ii. 

Some  have  wedded  sea-girls  and  lived  in  the  sea, 
Hearing  the  whisper  of  surf  far  over  their  hands, 
And  tuned  their  loving 
To  green  and  purple  twilight,  lazily  moving 
On  the  cold  sway  of  tides; 

[58] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Watching  the  little  fish  blow  bubbles  and  sands; 
And  the  ships  passing,  like  dark  clouds,  silently. 


And  I  was  one  of  these,  but  wearied  of  it, 

Of  the  faint  laughter,  and  the  ghostly  speech, 

And  so  in  the  moonlight  I  climbed  the  pebbled  hill, 

And  stood  up,  startled,  on  a  sunlit  beach  .  .  . 

I  remember  her  glaucous  eyes,  her  long  cool  fingers, 

And  the  pale  mouth,  and  the  sad  white  face — 

And  her  voice,  thinly  singing,  an  elfin  music 

Heard  in  an  elfin  place  .  .  . 

But  that  was  long  ago.     I  do  not  remember 

What  was  her  name,  or  why  it  was  that  I  loved  her. 


Some  are  moonstruck,  and  love  a  demon  woman ; 
And  wander  the  world  forever  after 
Hearing  an  echo  of  marvelous  laughter: 
These  are  pale,  as  who  have  seen  holy  things, 
They  stumble  on  stones, 

[591 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Their    eyes    are    forever    startled    by    knowledge    of 

wings  .  .  . 

My  blood  was  tranced  at  night  by  the  palest  woman, 
But  when  I  kissed  her  the  blood  in  my  veins  went  cold, 
Her  mouth  was  as  cold  as  the  sea. 
Among  the  leaves  she  rose  like  fire  ; 
Her  eyes  were  phosphor:  her  cold  hands  burned. 
But  when  the  red  sun  clanged  she  fell  from  me, 
She  fell  from  my  lips  with  an  anguished  cry, 
And  a  jewelled  snake  I  saw  her  lie 
Wreathing  her  sluggish  ashes  in  green  grass  beaded 

with  dew, 

Her  little  eyes  red  in  the  sun. 

My  heart  lay  dead  when  I  saw  the  thing  I  had  done, 
And  I  struck  at  the  wind,  I  ran  in  the  dark, 
I  kissed  the  huge  hands  of  time,  I  laughed  at  rain ; 
For  I  who  had  loved  a  lamia,  well  I  knew 
I  should  never  again  love  a  mortal,  or  see  her  again  .  .  . 


Grey  ghosts  move  in  the  lamplight:  these  are  dreams. 
Turn  back  the  page,  strike  a  profounder  chord, 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

We  will  resolve  these  phantoms  in  clear  fire. 

Our  spirits  have  ridden  abroad. 

Far  off,  we  hear  the  gallop  of  demon  desire. 


in. 

As  one  who  dreams,  in  a  light  sleep,  may  hear 
Sounds  through  his  dream, — bells,  or  passing  steps 
On  the  floor  above  him,  or  in  the  street  below, — 
Rhythmic,  precise  and  clear: 
Or  voices  muttering  in  an  adjacent  room, 
Lifting  a  moment,  to  die  again; — 
Yet  all  the  while  he  will  pursue  his  dream, 
Guessing  a  sinister  purport  in  well-known  sounds, 
And  still  in  his  own  deep  silent  world  remain: 
So  now  I  guess  the  world  from  which  I  came, 
In  flares  of  light,  ghosts  of  remembered  sound, 
Which  haunt  me  here  ...    A  voice,  a  street,  a  bell  .  .  . 
Whence  do  I  come,  and  why?    And  what's  my  name? 


And  you,  who  cut  an  orange  upon  a  plate, 

[61] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

With  a  small  silver  knife,  and  lean,  and  smile, — 
You  whose  mouth  is  a  sly  carnivorous  flower, 
Whose  flesh  is  softer  and  cooler  than  rainy  wind, — 
I  gaze  upon  you,  and  muse  strange  aberrations, 
I  hear  unearthly  music,  ghostly  flutes; 
I  dance  in  a  black  eclipse,  and  through  my  veins 
Is  a  cold  froth  of  sea;  and  you  are  forgotten  .  .  . 


And  you,  who  when  your  act  is  over   peer 
Witchlike  between  the  curtains,  above  the  footlights, 
Holding  the  curtains  with  jewelled  hands,  to  smile 
A  slow  and  mordant  smile  from  cavernous  eyes — 
What  hideous  things  amuse  you  secretly? 
What  have  you  drunk  to  make  your  lips  so  red? 
And  when  the  moon  creeps  up,  and  stars  dance  coldly, 
And  crickets  cry  in  the  dew,  and  dead  leaves  fall, 
Do  you  spread  bat-wings  from  a  starlit  wall  ?  .  .  . 


Music  dissolves  and  dies, — and  sings  again, 
Changing  its  mood;  the  lights  wink  out  in  darkness, 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

A  shrill  wind  crosses  us,  we  are  blown  and  stagger. 

Our  footsteps  ring  intense.     The  lights  return. 

And  we  have  silently  changed  ...    To  what,  to  whom? 


IV. 

Midnight  it  was,  or  just  before; 
And  as  I  dipt  for  the  hundredth  time 
The  small  white  quill  to  add  a  rhyme 
To  the  cold  page,  in  candlelight, 
Whereon  my  treatise  slowly  grew, — 
Someone  harshly  knocked  at  the  door; 
And  marvelling  I  became  aware 
That  with  that  knock  the  entire  night 
Went  mad ;  a  sudden  tempest  blew ; 
And  shrieking  goblins  rode  the  air. 


Alarmed,  not  knowing  why,  I  rose 
And  dropt  my  quill  across  the  page. 
What  demon  now,  what  archimage, 

[63] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

So  roiled  the  dark?    And  my  blood  froze 
When  through  the  keyhole,  with  the  wind, 
A  freezing  whisper,  strangely  thinned, 
Called  my  name  out,  called  it  twice  .  .  . 
My  heart  lay  still,  lay  black  as  ice. 
The  candle  trembled  in  my  hands; 
Between  my  fingers  the  dim  light  went; 
Shadows  hurried  and  shrank  and  blent. 
Huddled,  grotesque,  in  sarabands, 
Amazed  my  eyes,  till  dumb  I  stood, 
And  seemed  to  see  upon  that  air 
Goblins  with  serpents  in  their  hair, 
Mouths  contorted  for  soundless  cries, 
And  hands  like  claws,  and  wounded  throats, 
And  winking  embers  instead  of  eyes. 
The  blood  went  backward  to  my  heart. 
Thrice  in  the  night  a  horn  was  blown. 
And  then  it  seemed  that  I  had  known, 
For  ages,  even  before  my  birth, 
When  I  was  out  with  wind  and  fire, 
And  had  not  bargained  yet  with  earth, 

[64] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

That  this  same  night  the  horn  would  blow 

To  call  me  forth.    And  I  would  go. 

And  so,  as  haunted  dead  might  do, 

I  drew  the  bolt  and  dropped  the  chain, 

And  stood  in  dream,  and  only  knew 

The  door  had  opened  and  closed  again : 

Until  between  my  eyelids  came 

A  woman's  face,  a  sheath  of  flame, 

The  wink  of  opals  in  dusky  hair, 

A  golden  throat,  a  smile  like  fire, 

And  eyes  that  seemed  to  burn  the  air 

So  luminous  were  they  with  desire. 

She  laid  one  hand  upon  my  arm 

And  straight  a  blaze  was  in  my  veins, 

It  pierced  me  so  I  feared  a  charm, 

And  shrank ;  whereat,  pale,  hurriedly, 

She  whispered  'Quickly!     Come  with  me! 

All  shall  be  clear!     But  now  make  haste — 

Four  hours  till  dawn,  no  time  to  waste !' — 

The  amazing  whiteness  of  her  skin 

Had  snared  my  eyes,  and  now  her  voice 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Seethed  in  my  ears,  and  a  ghost  of  sin 
Died,  and  above  it  I  heard  rejoice 
Loud  violins,  in  chords  ascending, 
And  laughter  of  virgins ;  I  blew  the  light, 
And  followed  her,  heedless  of  the  ending, 
Into  the  carnival  of  that  night. 

Make  haste,  beloved !  the  night  passes, 
The  day  breaks,  the  cock  crows, 
Mist  slinks  away  in  the  sunlight, 
And  the  thin  blood  drips  from  the  rose. 

Black  stallions  rushed  us  through  the  air, 
Their  hooves  upon  the  wind  struck  fire; 
Rivers,  and  hills,  and  a  moonlit  spire 
Glided  beneath  us,  and  then  a  flare 
Of  gusty  torches  beckoned  us  down 
To  a  palace-gate  in  a  darkened  town. 
She  took  my  hand  and  led  me  in 
Through  walls  of  basalt  and  walls  of  jade, 
And  I  wondered,  to  hear  a  violin 
Sweetly  within  that  marble  played. 

[66] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  heard  it  sing,  a  wandering  tone, 
Imprisoned  forever  in  that  deep  stone. 


And  then  upon  a  couch  we  lay, 

And  heard  invisible  spirits  play 

A  ghostly  music;  the  candles  muttered. 

Rose-leaves  trembled  upon  the  floor, 

Lay  still,  or  rose  on  the  air  and  fluttered; 

And  while  the  moon  went  dwindling  down 

Poisoning  with  black  web  the  skies, 

She  narrowed  her  eyelids,  and  fixed  her  eyes, 

Fiercely  upon  me;  and  searched  me  so 

With  speeding  fire  in  every  shred 

That  I,  consumed  with  a  witching  glow, 

Knew  scarcely  if  I  were  alive  or  dead : 

But  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  kissed 

The  deep  red  mouth,  and  drank  the  breath, 

And  heard  it  gasping,  how  it  hissed 

To  mimic  the  ecstasy  of  death. 

Above  us  in  a  censer  burning 

Was  dust  of  lotos-flowers,  and  there 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Ghosts  of  smoke  were  ever  turning, 

And  gliding  along  the  sleepy  air, 

And  reaching  hands,  and  showing  faces, 

Or  coiling  slowly  like  blue  snakes, 

To  charm  us  moveless  in  our  places  •.  .  . 

But  then  she  softly  raised  her  head 

And  smiled  through  brooding  eyes,  and  said 

'O  lover,  I  have  seen  you  twice. 

You  changed  my  veins  to  veins  of  ice. 

The  first  time,  it  was  Easter  Eve, — 

By  the  church  door  you  stood  alone ; 

You  listened  to  the  priests  intone 

In  pallid  voices,  mournfully ; 

The  second  time  you  passed  by  me 

In  the  dusk,  but  did  not  see  .  .  .' 

Her  whisper  hissed  through  every  vein 

And  flowered  coldly  in  my  brain  .  .  . 

I  slept,  how  long  I  do  not  know; 

But  in  my  sleep  saw  huge  lights  flare, 

And  felt  a  rushing  of  wild  air, 

And  heard  great  walls  rock  to  and  fro  .  .  . 

Make  haste,  beloved!    The  cock  crows, 

[68] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 
And  the  cold  blood  drips  from  the  rose  .  . 

.  .  .  And  then  I  woke  in  my  own  room, 
And  saw  the  first  pale  creep  of  sun 
Drip  through  the  dewy  shutters,  and  run 
Across  the  floor,  and  in  that  gloom 
Marvelled  to  find  that  I  had  slept 
Still  fully  dressed,  and  that  I  kept 
One  bruised  white  rose-leaf  in  my  hand — 
From  whom? — and  could  not  understand. 

For  seven  days  my  quill  I  dipt 
To  wreathe  slow  filigrees  of  script : 
For  seven  nights  when  midnight  came, 
I  swooned,  I  swept  away  on  flame, 
Rushed  on  the  stallions  of  the  air, 
Heard  goblins  laugh,  saw  torches  flare, 
And  all  night  long,  while  music  mourned 
Hidden  under  the  trembled  floor, 
I  heard  her  low  strange  voice  implore 
As  one  who  speaks  from  under  the  earth, 

[69] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Imploring  music,   imploring  mirth, 
Before  the  allotted  time  was  done 
And  cock  crew  up  the  sullen  sun. 
Day  by  day  my  face  grew  pale, 
Hollowed  and  purple  were  my  eyes, 
I  blinked  beneath  too  brilliant  skies: 
And  sometimes  my  weak  hand  would  fail, 
Blotting  the  page  whereon  I  wrought  .  .  . 
This  woman  is  a  witch !    I  thought  .  .  . 
And  I  resolved  that  night  to  find 
If  this  were  real,  or  in  rny  mind. 


Viol  and  flute  and  violin 
Remote  through  labyrinths  complained. 
Her  hand  was  foam  upon  my  skin. 
And  then  I  closed  my  eyes  and  feigned 
A  sudden  sleep;  whereat  her  eyes 
Peered,  and  darkened,  and  opened  wide, 
Her  white  brow  flushed,  and  by  my  side 
Laughing,  with  little  ecstatic  cries, 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

She  kissed  my  mouth,  she  stroked  my  hair, 
And  fed  upon  me  with  fevered  stare. 
'One  little  drop!'  she  murmured  then — 
'One  little  bubble  from  this  red  vein, 
And  safe  I  await  the  sun  again — ' 
I  heard  my  heart  hiss  loud  and  slow; 
A  gust  of  wind  through  the  curtains  came ; 
It  flapped  the  upright  candle-flame. 
Her  famishing  eyes  began  to  glow, 
She  bared  my  arm ;  with  a  golden  pin, 
Leaned,  and  tenderly  pricked  the  skin. 
And  as  the  small  red  bubble  rose, 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  an  evil  light, 
She  fawned  upon  me ;  and  my  heart  froze 
Seeing  her  teeth  so  sharp  and  white.  .  . 

Vampire!  I  cried.     The  flame  puffed  out. 

Two  blazing  eyes  withdrew  from  me. 

The  music  tore  discordantly. 

The  darkness  swarmed  with  a  goblin  rout. 

Great  horns  shattered,  and  walls  were  falling, 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Green  eyes  glowed,  voices  were  calling; 

And  suddenly  then  the  night  grew  still, 

The  air  blew  suddenly  damp  and  chill, 

Stars  above  me  paled  in  the  sky, 

Far  off  I  heard  one  mournful  cry — 

Or  under  the  earth — and  then  I  found 

I  lay  alone  on  the  leafy  ground. 

And  when  stars  died,  and  the  cock  crowed, 

The  first  pale  pour  of  sunlight  showed 

That  it  was  on  a  grave  I  lay, 

A  new-made  grave  of  tumbled  clay. 


That  night  I  took  a  priest  with  me ; 
And  sharp  at  the  midnight,  secretly, 
By  lantern-light,  with  spade  and  pick, 
Striking  on  stones  with  loamy  click, 
We  laid  a  golden  coffin  bare, 
And  sprinkled  the  holy  water  there. 
And  straight  we  heard  a  sorrowful  cry 
Something  upon  the  dark  went  by; 
The  trees  thrashed  in  a  sudden  gust ; 

[72] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Pebbles  rattled  in  windy  dust, 

Far  off,  wildly,  pealed  a  bell, 

A  voice  sobbed,  and  silence  fell. 

And  I  grew  sad,  to  think  that  I 

Should  make  that  marvellous  spirit  die  . 


Make  haste,  beloved !     The  night  passes, 
The  day  creeps,  the  cock  crows, 
Mist  slinks  away  in  the  pale  sun 
And  the  opened  grave  must  close. 


v. 

Vampires,  they  say,  blow  an  unearthly  beauty, 
Their  bodies  are  all  suffused  with  a  soft  witch-fire, 
Their  flesh  like  opal  .  .  .  their  hair  like  the  float  of 

night. 

Why  do  we  muse  upon  them,  what  secret's  in  them  ? 
Is  it  because,  at  last,  we  love  the  darkness, 
Love  all  things  in  it,  tired  of  too  much  light? 

[73] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Here  on  the  lamplit  pavement,  in  the  city, 
Where  the  high  stars  are  lost  in  the  city's  glow, 
The  eyes  of  harlots  go  always  to  and  fro— 
They  rise  from  a  dark  world  we  know  nothing  of, 
Their  faces  are  white,  with  a  strange  love — 
And  are  they  vampires,  or  do  I  only  dream?.  .  . 
Lamps  on  the  long  bare  asphalt  coldly  gleam. 


And  hearing  the  ragtime  from  a  cabaret, 
And  catching  a  glimpse,  through  turning  doors, 
Of  a  spangled  dancer  swaying  with  drunken  eyes, 
Applauded  and  stared  at  by  pimps  and  whores — 
What  decadent  dreams  before  us  rise?  . 


The  pulse  of  the  music  thickens,  it  grows  macabre, 
The  horns  are  a  stertorous  breath, 
Someone  is  dying,  someone  is  raging  at  death  .  .  . 
Around  a  coffin  they  dance,  they  pelt  dead  roses, 
They  stand  the  coffin  on  end,  a  loud  spring  clangs, 
And  suddenly  like  a  door  the  coffin  uncloses : 

[74] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  a  skeleton  leers  upon  us  in  evening  dress, — 

There  in  the  coffin  he  stands, 

With  his  hat  in  his  white-gloved  hands, 

And  bows,  and  smiles,  and  puffs  at  a  cigarette. 

Harlots  blow  kisses  to  him,  and  fall,  forgotten, 

The  great  clock  strikes;  soft  petals  drift  to  the  floor; 

One  by  one  the  dancers  float  through  the  door, 

Hair  is  dust,  flesh  is  rotten, 

The  coffin  goes  down  into  darkness,  and  we  forget.  .  . 

Who  told  us  this?     Was  it  a  music  we  heard, 

A  picture  we  saw,  a  dream  we  dreamed?.  .  . 

I  am  pale,  I  am  strangely  tired. 

A  warm  dream  lay  upon  me,  its  red  eyes  gleamed, 

It      sucked    my    breath  ...  It  sighed  ...  It    afflicted 

me  ... 
But  was  that  dream  desired,  or  undesired? 

We  must  seek  other  tunes,  another  fragrance : 

This  slows  the  blood  in  our  hearts,  and  cloys  our  veins. 

Open  the  windows.     Show  us  the  stars.     We  drowse. 

[75] 


PART  IV. 

i 

I. 

Twilight  is  spacious,  near  things  in  it  seem  far, 
And  distant  things  seem  near. 
Now  in  the  green  west  hangs  a  yellow  star. 
And  now  across  old  waters  you  may  hear 
The  profound  gloom  of  bells  among  still  trees, 
Like  a  rolling  of  huge  boulders  beneath  seas. 


Silent  as  thought  in  evening  contemplation 
Weaves  the  bat  under  the  gathering  stars. 
Silent  as  dew  we  seek  new  incarnation, 
Meditate  new  avatars. 
In  a  clear  dusk  like  this 
Mary  climbed  up  the  hill  to  seek  her  son, 
To  lower  him  down  from  the  cross,  and  kiss 
The  mauve  wounds,  every  one. 

176] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Men  with  wings 

In  the  dusk  walked  softly  after  her. 

She  did  not  see  them,  but  may  have  felt 

The  winnowed  air  around  her  stir, 

She  did  not  see  them,  but  may  have  known 

Why  her  son's  body  was  light  as  a  little  stone. 

She  may  have  guessed  that  other  hands  were  there 

Moving  the  watchful  air. 

Now,  unless  persuaded  by  searching  music 

Which  suddenly  opens  the  portals  of  the  mind, 

We  guess  no  angels, 

And  are  contented  to  be  blind. 

Let  us  blow  silver  horns  in  the  twilight, 

And  lift  our  hearts  to  the  yellow  star  in  the  green, 

To  find  perhaps,  if,  while  the  dew  is  rising, 

Clear  things  may  not  be  seen. 


[77 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

ii. 

Under  a  tree  I  sit,  and  cross  my  knees, 
And  smoke  a  cigarette. 

You  nod  to  me :  you  think  perhaps  you  know  me. 
But  I  escape  you,  I  am  none  of  these  ; 
I  leave  my  name  behind  me,  I  forget.  .  . 

I  hear  a  fountain  shattering  into  a  pool; 

I  see  the  gold  fish  slanting  under  the  cool  ; 

And  suddenly  all  is  frozen  into  silence. 

And  among  the  firs,  or  over  desert  grass, 

Or  out  of  a  cloud  of  dust,  or  out  of  darkness, 

Or  on  the  first  slow  patter  of  sultry  rain, 

I  heard  a  voice  cry  'Marvels  have  come  to  pass, — 

The  like  of  which  shall  not  be  seen  again !' 


And  behold,  across  a  sea  one  came  to  us, 
Treading  the  wave's  edge  with  his  naked  feet, 
Slowly,  as  one  might  walk  in  a  ploughed  field. 
We  stood  where  the  soft  waves  on  the  shingle  beat, 

[78] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

In  a  blowing  mist,  and  pressed  together  in  terror, 
And  marvelled  that  all  our  eyes  might  share  one  error. 


For  if  the  fisher's  fine-spun  net  must  sink, 

Or  pebbles  flung  by  a  boy,  or  the  thin  sand, 

How  shall  we  understand 

That  flesh  and  blood  might  tread  on  the  sea-water 

And  foam  not  wet  the  ankles  ?    We  must  think 

That  all  we  know  is  lost,  or  only  a  dream, 

That  dreams  are  real,  and  real  things  only  dream. 

And  if  a  man  may  walk  to  us  like  this 

On  the  unstable  sea,  as  on  a  beach, 

With  his  head  bowed  in  thought — 

Then  we  have  been  deceived  in  what  men  teach; 

And  all  our  knowledge  has  come  to  nought ; 

And  a  little  flame  should  seeek  the  earth, 

And  leaves,  falling,  should  seek  the  sky, 

And  surely  we  should  enter  the  womb  for  birth, 

And  sing  from  the  ashes  when  we  die. 

[79] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Or  was  the  man  a  god,  perhaps,  or  devil  ? 
They  say  he  healed  the  sick  by  stroke  of  hands  ; 
And  that  he  gave  the  sights  of  the  earth  to  the  blind. 
And  I  have  heard  that  he  could  touch  a  fig-tree, 
And  say  to  it,  'Be  withered !'  and  it  would  'shrink 
Like  a  cursed  thing,  and  writhe  its  leaves,  and  die. 
How  shall  we  understand  such  things,  I  wonder, 
Unless  there  are  things  invisible  to  the  eye? 


And  there  was  Lazarus,  raised  from  the  dead : 
To  whom  he  spoke  quietly,  in  the  dusk, — 
Lazarus,  three  days  dead,  and  mortified; 
And  the  pale  body  trembled ;  as  from  a  swoon, 
Sweating,  the  sleeper  woke,  and  raised  his  head ; 
And  turned  his  puzzled  eyes  from  side  to  side.  .  . 


Should  we  not,  then,  hear  voices  in  a  stone, 
Talking  of  heaven  and  hell? 
Or  if  one  walked  beside  a  sea,  alone, 
Hear  broodings  of  a  bell?— 

[80] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Or  on  a  green  hill  in  the  evening's  fire, 
If  we  should  stand  and  listen  to  poplar  trees, 
Should  we  not  hear  the  lit  leaves  suddenly  choir 
A  jargon  of  silver  music  against  the  sky? — 
Or  the  dew  sing,  or  dust  profoundly  cry? — 


If  this  is  possible,  then  all  things  are: 

And  I  may  leave  my  body  crumpled  there 

Like  an  old  garment  on  the  floor; 

To  walk  abroad  on  the  unbetraying  air ; 

To  pass  through  every  door, 

And  see  the  hills  of  the  earth,  or  climb  a  'Star. 


Wound  me  with  spears,  you  only  stab  the  wind ; 

You  nail  my  cloak  against  a  bitter  tree ; 

You  do  not  injure  me. 

I  pass  through  the  crowd,  the  dark  crowd  busy  with 

murder, 

Through  the  linked  arms  I  pass; 
And  slowly  descend  the  hill,  through  dew-wet  grass. 

[81] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

in. 

They  tell  me  John,  at  Herod's  court,  is  dead: 
John  with  whom  I  talked  beneath  a  plane-tree : 
John,  whose  holy  touch  is  on  my  head. 


Herod,  mark  my  words,  you  shall  pay  for  this ! 
You  shall  forever  yield  to  the  dance  of  demons ; 
And  see  your  grizzled  head  in  a  bowl  of  fire. 


They  say  his  loud  voice  crying  from  the  cistern, 

Calling  the  curse  of  God  upon  Herodias, 

Troubled  her  night  and  day. 

She  heard  his  restless  chain  clank  in  the  cistern. 

In  the  night-time  she  heard  him  cry  'Adulteress !' — 

And  Herod  heard  him,  and  laughed;  and  the  Roman 

captains ; 
And  now  he  is  dead,  they  say. 


For  in  the  banquet-room 

[82] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  lovely  Jewess  crept  and  danced, 

While  he  was  drinking  wine  she  came  and  danced. 

Dance,  Jewess !     For  much  depends  upon  you  : 

And  you  shall  be  rewarded  with  something  precious. 

Behind  the  curtains  Herodias  quivers, 

Her  cruel  eyes  are  narrowed  on  you  ; 

And  Herod  follows  you  through  a  cloud  of  wine. 


There  is  no  music  in  the  banquet- room, 

But  the  snores  of  sodden  guests. 

Dance,  Jewess  !  Dance,  Salome ! 

Beautiful  are  your  hands,  beautiful  are  your  breasts. 

You  are  young  and  lovely,  your  body  is  slender, 

You  waver  like  a  running  fire, 

Herodias  hates  you,  behind  the  tall  curtain, 

And  Herod  beams  upon  you  through  a  cloud  of  desire. 


She  dances  through  the  old  heart  of  Herod, 

Causing  him  great  pain  and  sadness ; 

She  draws  the  sap  of  longing  into  his  veins ; 

[831 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

She  smiles,  and  he  smiles  too. 

He  trembles,  watching  the  languor  of  her  body, 

Her  cool  deliberate  feet. 

And  John  is  quiet,  in  the  dark  cistern, 

Hearing  above  his  head  a  rhythmic  beat. 


And  now  they  have  rewarded  her  with  a  precious 

thing — 

She  laughs,  and  carries  it  high  upon  her  hands, 
She  dances  with  it,  she  weeps  upon  it — 
She  kisses  the  dark  hair. 
She  bears  it  before  her  on  a  bright  salver, 
She  is  pale  with  love,  she  dances  slowly ; 
And  Herod  cries  into  his  shaken  wine-cup, 
Cries,  for  giving  the  harlot  a  thing  that  is  holy. 


Dance,  Jewess !  Dance,  white-kneed  Salome ! 
Laugh  or  cry,  what  does  it  matter? 
Your  little  mouth  is  red  with  the  blood  of  a  prophet; 
The  shouting  of  dreams  is  on  your  platter. 

[84] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Dust  arises  over  the  desert  and  dances, 
And  sleeps  again  under  a  winter  moon. 
Salome,  Herod,  Herodias — you  shall  all  perish, 
You  shall  all  be  dust  soon  . 


Sometime,  I  should  like  to  see  this  Jewess,  Salome- 
She  is  fair,  they  say,  and  young. 
Through  her,  things  come  to  pass  as  prophesied : 
God  speaks  with  a  strange  tongue. 

And  so  at  the  court  of  Herod,  he  is  dead.  .  . 
John,  with  whom  I  talked  by  an  old  plane-tree.  .  . 
John,  whose  fiery  hands  are  on  my  head. 


[85] 


\ 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

IV. 

You  smoke  with  me:  you  do  not  think 
That  I  have  stood  by  Jordan's  brink : 
You  talk  with  me,  and  do  not  guess 
That  I  have  power  to  curse  or  bless.  .  . 
You  think  you  know  me,  know  my  name, 
Can  tell  me  where  and  whence  I  came — 
Is  knowing  to  be  so  simple,  then? 
And  am  I  one,  or  a  million  men  ? 

Brother  Peter  walked  up  and  down 
The  cloister  shade  in  a  corded  gown. 
The  fountain  splashed  by  the  blue  yew-trees, 
And  the  sun  was  shot  with  glistening  bees. 
From  hill  to  hill  sang  bell  to  bell, 
The  May  sky  dreamed;  and  softly  fell, 
Some  in  the  shadow,  and  some  in  the  sun, 
Small  Judas  petals,  one  by  one. 

Brother  Peter  was  sick  with  care, 
His  pulses  beat  slow  tunes  of  prayer. 

[86] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

His  heart  was  like  a  yellowing  leaf, 
From  bell  to  bell  he  mused  his  grief. 
He  did  not  see  the  bright  drops  spatter, 
Nor  Judas  blossoms  blow  and  scatter, 
He  did  not  see  the  bees  weave  by, 
Nor  sombre  yews  in  the  soft  May  sky — 
But  up  and  down  his  sandalled  feet 
Soft  on  the  dustless  flagstones  beat. 
And  up  and  down  his  musings  went 
Weaving  a  pattern  of  /discontent. 


At  Fiesole,  betwixt  bell  and  bell, 
It  was  there  the  hideous  thing  befell ; 
Working  there  with  Brother  Paul 
Pruning  the  vine-leaves  on  a  wall. 
Among  the  ghostly  olive-trees 
That  shook  like  silver  in  the  breeze, 
A  peasant  girl  came  singing  by, 
Golden  of  skin  and  quick  of  eye, 
She  turned  her  cheek  and  glanced  at  him, 
And  straight  he  forgot  his  seraphim.  .  . 

[87] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Fior  de  Ginestra — so  -she  sang, 
And  yellow  bloom  in  his  grey  heart  sprang,- 
Yellow  blossoms  were  on  his  tongue 
And  this  was  May,  and  she  was  young. 


He  looked  along,  but  Brother  Paul 
Worked  at  the  far  end  of  the  wall. 
He  looked  again,  and  she  had  turned, 
And  smiled,  and  all  his  body  burned. 
Petals  of  pale  fire  whirled  his  brain, 
His  blood  was  a  chorus  of  singing  pain, 
And — Holy  Mary !  who  taught  him  this  ? 
Sudden  he  blew  the  girl  a  kiss.  .  . 
Her  brown  feet  flashed  along  the  grass, 
And  through  the  gate  he  saw  them  pass — 
She  waved  one  hand,  the  gate  went  clang, 
And  'Fior  de  Ginestra' — so  she  sang. 


Brother  Paul  turned  round  to  see 
The  -source  of  all  this  levity. 

[88] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Brother  Peter  snipped  at  a  leaf, 

But  now  his  heart  was  sick  with  grief. 

'Christ,  Thy  pardon !'  he  said  and  said. 

He  prayed;  but  still  it  swooned  his  head, 

'Fior  de  Ginestra,'  sweet  as  sun  ; 

And  he  saw  her  feet  like  laughter  run. 


He  counted  beads,  he  begged  of  Heaven 
That  such  a  sin  might  be  forgiven; 
But  the  thing  that  seemed  so  simple  there 
Turned,  in  the  cloister,  to  despair. 
He  lit  two  candles  of  pointed  flame 
And  sought  to  forget  in  work  his  shame : 
Opened  the  marvellous  manuscript 
Embossed  with  azure  and  gold,  and  dipt 
His  brush  in  little  cups  of  paint 
For  the  wings  and  aureole  of  a  saint. 
But  the  bright  hues  swam  beneath  his  eyes  ; 
And  he  shrank  with  horror  to  see  arise 
Her  clear  face  there,  her  singing  smile.  .  . 
He  dropped  his  brushes.     This  was  vile. 

[89] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

He  prayed  and  fasted.     All  night  long 
He  knelt  and  prayed;  until  the  song 
Of  birds  in  the  cloister  pierced  his  cell 
With  drowsy  beams ;  and  the  matin  bell. 
All  day  he  fasted,  all  day  prayed. 
Up  and  down,  in  the  cloister's  shade, 
Slowly  he  walked,  and  did  not  see 
How  late  sun  sprinkled  the  blue  yew  tree. 


Moonlight  through  the  cell  door  came 
And  quivered  its  edges  with  pale  blue  flame. 
But  since  the  Christ  had  been  betrayed 
Was  it  enough  that  he  fasted,  prayed  ? 
He  took  the  thongs  down  from  the  shelf 
And  silent,  in  moonlight,  scourged  himself. 


Said  Brother  Paul,  'Now  what  can  ail 
Our  Brother  Peter,  who  looks  so  pale  ?' 
Slant  eyes  peered  askance  at  him; 
And  sudden  the  columns  reeled  to  swim — 

[90] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

They  tilted  and  ran  before  his  eyes 
Low  and  brown  along  blue  skies, 
A  flash  of  green,  a  gleam  of  white, 
Paths  and  fountain.  .  .  Then  came  night. 


They  laid  his  body  beside  the  pool, 
Where  the  yew-tree  shade  spread  blue  and  cool  ; 
Into  the  spring  they  dipped  their  hands 
Above  the  wavering  pebbles  and  sands, 
Lifted  their  eyes  for  Heaven's  grace, 
And  bathed  with  silver  the  dreaming  face. 
They  spoke  in  whispers,  round  him  kneeling. 
Lay  brothers  through  the  garden  stealing, 
Dropping  spade  or  pruning-hook, 
Came  to  the  fountain-side,  to  look 
With  long  and  curious  oxen-stare 
At  the  body  of  Peter  lying  there. 


An.  hour  passed.     And  in  the  shade 

Still  he  dreamed,  while  the  Abbot  prayed. 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Bees  in  the  Judas-blossoms  clinging 
Shook  down  petals,  larks  rose  singing, 
The  noon  was  filled  with  bubbles  of  sound, 
The  pure  sky  dreamed,  serene,  profound. 
And  then  at  last  his  thin  hands  stirred, — 
He  raised  his  head,  and  spoke  no  word, 
Looked  round  him  with  unknowing  eyes, 
And  shrank,  beneath  too  brilliant  skies. 
'Shall  I  be  pardoned,  Christ,  for  this? 
I  have  betrayed  you  with  a  kiss/ 
This,  for  the  moment,  was  all  he  said, 
And  closed  his  eyes,  and  bent  his  head. 


'I  alone  of  the  chosen  fe 
Was  not  of  Galilee,  they  knew. 
And  so  they  came  at  dusk  to  me, — 
In  the  garden,  by  a  purple  tree. 
Thirty  pieces  of  silver  there, 
Thirty  glints  in  the  twilight  air — 
Thirty  silver  whispers  spoken, — 
Master,  forgive !  my  vows  were  broken. 

[92] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

'I  did  not  clearly  know,  I  swear, 
What  thing  it  was  I  was  doing  there ; 
Nor  did  I  guess  from  such  soft  breath, 
That  men  like  these  could  purpose  death. 


'O  Master !  When  we  supped  that  night 
On  the  bare  board  by  candle-light, 
I  knew  your  great  heart  had  divined 
The  venomous  secret  in  my  mind. 
For  when  you  drank,  and  broke  the  bread, 
It  was  to  me  you  turned  your  head 
Saying,  with  grave  eyes,  quietly, 
"When  you  do  this,  remember  me." 
I  was  confused ;  I  knew  my  sin ; 
The  Pharisees  and  Sanhedrin 
Cried  in  my  veins.     And  so  I  rose, 
Too  weak  to  tell  you  all,  I  chose 
To  do  the  thing  I  was  bought  to  do ; 
I  brought  them,  led  them  in  to  you, 
I  marked  you  with  the  unholy  kiss. 
And  I  was  paid  with  coins  for  this. 

[93] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

'Staves  shall  blossom  in  scarlet  flowers, 
And  all  dumb  mouths  have  singing  powers; 
There  shall  be  wedding  of  dust  and  sea 
Before  my  soul  is  given  me  ... 
They  come  in  the  night  with  staff  and  sword, 
They  have  wried  his  hands  with  hempen  cord ; 
Through  filthy  streets  they  jostle  him; 
And  all  grows  faint,  and  all  grows  dim.  .  . 


'On  Olivet  we  shrink.     We  see 
The  black  procession  to  Calvary. 
The  soldiers  sway  with  ripple  of  spears, 
The  trumpets  cry,    the  rabble  jeers. 
Jesus  is  whipped  for  being  slow, 
The  great  cross  pains  his  shoulder  so. 
Once  he  falls,  though  we  hear  no  sound, 
And  lies  unmoving  on  the  ground ; 
And  as  he  falls  my  soul  falls  too : 
I  am  dazed,  I  know  not  what  I  do  ... 
The  little  whip-lash  flickers  in  sun, 
My  body  feels  the  cool  blood  run, 

[94] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  red  welts  ridge  and  sear  my  skin, 

My  eyes  are  blind  with  the  blood  of  sin. 

But  a  girl  has  lifted  him  a  cup 

He  drinks,  and  again  he  staggers  up. 

I  am  spent  with  watching.     I  have  no  breath. 

My  body  is  stretched  to  verge  of  death. 


They  have  climbed  the  hill  they  call  the  Skull. 
The  crowd  packs  close.  .  .  Hollow  and  dull, 
The  ominous  mallet-strokes  resound. 
He  is  stretched  out  silent  on  the  ground. 
Far  off,  we  hear  the  brass  nails  driven; 
The  sullen  echoes  knock  at  heaven. 
Far  off,  three  crosses  toss  and  rise 
Black  and  little  against  the  skies. 
One  faint  voice  wails  agony- 
It  was  a  thief,  it  was  not  He. 


'He  writhes  his  head  from  side  to  side. 
O  holy  Christ  I  have  crucified ! — 

[95] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  twist  there  on  the  cross  with  you; 
And  what  you  suffer  I  suffer  too.  .  . 


'Ravens  gather :  they  blot  the  sun : 
Out  of  the  sky  the  light  has  run. 
The  orchards  dim,  the  hill  grows  stark, 
The  earth  rocks  thrice  in  clamorous  dark. 
Great  wheels  rumble,  and  horses  neigh; 
Like  mist  the  darkness  rolls  away.  .  . 
The  sun  breaks  forth.     The  birds  again 
Sing,  as  after  a  shower  of  rain. 


'Blue  in  the  gulf  the  clear  stream  flows 
Through  humid  gardens  of  lily  and  rose. 
Above  the  gardens,  in  terraces, 
Are  almond-trees,  then  olive-treees ; 
Above  them  all  one  tree,  alone, 
Stands  in  the  sky.     The  blossom  blown 
Purples  the  ground,  and  purples  the  bough. 
And  there  Death  sings  in  the  blossoms  now. 

[96] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

'I  turn  my  back  on  Golgotha, 
Where  all  my  sinister  sorrows  are, — 
And  seek  this  blossoming  leafless  tree. 
It  shall  forever  be  named  for  me.' 


v. 

Twilight  is  spacious,  near  things  in  it  seem  far, 
And  distant  thingis  seem  near. 
Now  in  the  green  west  hangs  a  yellow  star ; 
And  now  across  old  waters  you  may  hear 
The  profound  gloom  of  bells  among  still  trees, 
Like  a  rolling  of  huge  boulders  beneath  seas. 


Peter  said  that  Christ,  though  crucified, 
Had  not  died; 

But  that  escaping  from  his  cerements, 
In  human  flesh,  with  mortal  sense, 
Amazed  at  such  an  ending, 
He  fled  alone,  and  hid  in  Galilee, 

[97] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  lived  in  secret,  spending 

His  days  and  nights,  perplexed,  in  contemplation : 

And  did  not  know  if  this  were  surely  he. 

Did  Peter  tell  me  this?     Or  was  I  Peter? 

Or  did  I  listen  to  a  tavern-story? 

Green  leaves  thrust  out  and  fall.     It  was  long  ago. 

Dust  has  been  heaped  upon  us  .  .     We  have  perished. 

We  clamor  again.     And  again  we  are  dust  and  blow. 

Well,  let  us  take  the  music,  and  drift  with  it 
Into  the  darkness  ...     It  is  exquisite. 


[98] 


PART  V. 

i. 

As  sometimes,  in  the  playhouse, 

While  pizzicati  tremble,  and  lights  are  low, 

And  the  hero  pleads  his  love  in  the  crude  moonlight, 

Or  the  villain  staggers  to  shadows  after  a  blow : 

Suddenly  through  the  quiet,  from  dark  streets, 

Through  walls  and  doors  a  sound  from  the  world  is 

heard, 

A  shout,  a  piercing  whistle,  sharp  and  clear, 
Or  a  horn,  blown  and  echoing,  or  a  loud  cry, — 
And  the  lovers  and  the  blue  moonlight  seem  absurd ; 
And  the  slow  music,  and  the  well-ordered  words, 
The  flute-players  with  white  hands,  and  the  footlights, 

seem 

Unreal  and  soundless  as  a  dream: 
So,  as  I  follow  silently  through  my  mind 
The  devious  paths  that  wind 

[99] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Among  old  forests  lamia-haunted, 

Through  silences  enchanted, 

Or  into  the  glare  and  sound  and  vibrant  dust 

Of  labyrinthine  cities,  among  pale  faces, 

Among  the  glidings  of  uncounted  eyes, 

Wearing  the  fire  of  love,  the  tinsel  of  lust, 

Singing  in  music,  or  uttering  cries  ; 

Dying  in  garrets  to  the  slow  tick  of  clocks ; 

Swinging  in  gaslit  cellars  from  knotted  ropes ; 

Catching  with  claws  at  illusory  hopes ; 

Lying  with  perfumed  harlots  or  picking  locks ; — 

Measuring  out  the  intolerable  hours 

In  the  strange  secret  hearts  of  those  unknown, 

To  dive  to  slimy  pavements  from  high  towers, 

Or  walk  abroad  in  the  light  of  the  stars,  alone,— 


So,  in  an  instant,  through  this  silent  dream, 

Sounds  from  the  real  world  break, — 

Suddenly  I  awake, 

And  hear  familiar  voices,  just  as  though 

I  had  dozed  a  second  and  missed  a  word  or  two. 

[100] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  see  the  familiar  street-lamps  gleam, 

Or  find  myself  sitting,  as  long  ago, 

In  the  same  cafe  among  the  people  I  knew, — 

With   the  same    coffee  before    me,  and   between    my 

fingers 

The  same  slow  cigarette  consuming  in  smoke  : 
And  in  my  ears  an  echo  of  music  lingers, 
And  the  sound  of  a  dying  sentence  that  someone  spoke. 


And  I  am  amazed,  I  do  not  know 

If  this  is  I,  who  drink  vermouth, 

Or  whether  that  was  I  who  rode  the  air. 

I  fell  to  an  outspread  net ;     I  stabbed  my  lover ; 

I  kissed  a  vampire's  hair  .  .  . 


Dreams,  in  the  mind,  move  silently  to  and  fro 

As  winds  through  the  clear  sky  blow, — 

I  do  not  guess 

Whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go. 

A  soft  air,  like  a  music,  divides  the  smoke, — 

[101] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  lazily  shifting  smoke  of  the  cigarettes, — 
We  follow  upon  it ;  and  the  tired  heart  forgets 


Once  I  must  have  loved,  for  I  remember 
Seeing  her  white  face,  and  the  clear  green  eyes  .  .  . 
I  followed  her  through  the  slanting  silver  of  rain ; 
I  followed  the  sound  of  her  breathing  through  the  dark 
ness; 

Till  at  last,  and  suddenly,  she  dissolved  in  the  sunlight, 
I  was  engulfed  in  a  dazzle  of  silent  skies. 


Once,  I  stood  by  a  curbstone  in  the  moonlight, 
A  carriage  stopped,  a  face  leaned  out; 
The  carriage  was  silvered  and  ghostly  in  the  moonlight. 
We  sat  together  talking  in  intimate  darkness, 
The  wheels  murmured,  the  hooves  beat; 
Together  we  echoed  alone  down  an  infinite  street. 
And  as  the  street-lamps  slanted  across  her  eyes, 
And  swam  into  darkness  again  through  spear-like 
shadows, 

[102] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

She  was  shy,  she  laughed  .  .  .  But  that  was  long  ago. 
And  when  I  left  her,  or  why,  or  who  she  was, 
I  never  shall  know. 


I  have  climbed  stairs  with  a  candle  between  my  palms 
To  seek  the  eternal  secret  behind  a  door. 
I  have  struck  matches  and  seen  serene  white  faces. 
Once  in  the  darkness  I  heard  her  singing, 
And  followed  the  music  into  her  heart; 
Sometimes,  I  have  found  delight  in  secret  places  .  .  . 
But  ever  I    turn  and  turn,  with  my  turning  shadow, 
Ever  like  smoke  I  am  blown  and  spread  and  die, 
Dissolved  in  the  speckless  brilliance  of  a  sky  .  .  . 

Well,  no  matter ;  I  die,  but  all  dies  with  me ; 

The  world  reels  out  into  silence  ; 

The  darkness  of  death  comes  suddenly  over  the  sun. 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

n. 

Rhythms  there  are  that  take  the  blood  with  magic, 
Smoothing  it  out  in  silver; 
Rhythms  there  are  that  die  in  the  brain's  dark 

chambers 

Like  a  blowing  fragrance. 
Whose  voice  is  this,  so  filling  the  darkness, 
Making  the  stars  so  bright  ? 

Who  is  it  that  dances  before  us  through  the  night? 
Yet  through  these  rhythms  laughter  is  always  breaking, 
We  dream  our  dreams,  but  dream  forever  waking, 
The  elfin  horns  are  silenced,  the  mouths  we  kissed 
Are  blown  aside  like  mist. 

Isolda,  leaning  among  her  coffee-cups, 

Smiles  to  me. 

Helen  of  Sparta,  bearing  a  silver  tray, 

Laughs  at  me. 

Isolda,  I  will  meet  you  to-night  in  the  moonlight 

And  praise  your  golden  hair. 

Helen,  I  will  walk  with  you  by  the  sea-waves 

And  kiss  you  there. 

[104] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

One  leaned  down  from  a  balcony  sweet  with  jasmine 

To  blow  her  kiss  to  me. 

One  over  cobwebs  danced  in  the  cold  of  the  moon. 

One  came  late  by  the  dark  of  a  city  wall. 

By  the  dust  of  a  new-made  grave,  one  came  too  soon. 

Fall,  rhythms !  Die,  music !  My  lovers  betray  me — 
They  kiss  me,  and  sing,  but  their  brothers  are  creeping 

to  slay  me. 

A  darkness  is  in  their  eyes,  foreboding  death. 
They  have  conspired  with  silence  to  suck  my  breath. 

One  ran  into  the  pinewood,  calling  me  after 

With  a  wave  of  her  hand: 

One,  with  a  soft  hypocritical  laughter, 

Slid  through  the  lips  of  the  sand. 

One  ran  lightly  up  silver  ladders  of  rain ; 

I  never  saw  her  again. 

Fall,  rhythms!  Die,  music!  For  always,  in  moonlight, 
Soon  as  I  start  to  praise,  and  she  to  love, 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  moonlight  is  shattered,  the  petals  are  blown  away. 
Darkness  whistles  between  us,  the  music  shudders, 
The  enchantment  passes,  the  audience  rises, 
The  curtain  falls,  the  musicians  cease  to  play  .  .  . 


And  once  more  I  must  go, 

As  I  have  gone  before  a  thousand  times, 

To  a  little  dingy  room :  and  light  the  gas 

And  read  the  evening  paper;  or  at  the  window, 

Observe  the  old  moon,  shining  upon  the  rooftops ; 

Or  watch,  in  the  street,  the  lonely  harlots  pass  .  .  . 


in. 

The  astrologer's  red  face  slowly  turned  towards  me 
Against  a  blackboard  figured  with  horoscopes ; 
An  old  man  nodded ;  a  woman  sighed. 
'Now  here's  a  little  blue-eyed  girl  in  Virgo, 
Loved  by  a  syphilitic,  twice  her  age  .  .  .' 
Among  the  ghostly  stars  a  whisper  died. 

[106] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  as  one  walking  down  a  corridor 

Towards  a  lamplit  mirror 

Sees  his  own  body,  remote  and  small  and  dim, 

Insubstantial  and  vague,  come  slowly  nearer, 

With  equal  steps,  and  fixed  eyes  always  clearer, 

Until  at  last  it  sharply  faces  him, — 

So,  in  the  darkness  of  that  air, 

He  slowly  became  aware 

That  it  was  he  who  lay  upon  the  bed 

With  a  pillow  beneath  his  head: 

He  suddenly  faced  his  own  identity, 

He  knew  himself,  grown  old  and  tired  and  ill, 

And  saw  the  white  spread  flowing  away  in  darkness, 

Or  into  infinity. 


He  was  tired :  he  wished  to  die. 

If  one  could  only,  by  an  act  of  will, 

Stop  the  sick  heart  forever!     If  one  could  only 

Shake  off  this  hideous  sickness,  like  a  dream  !— 

He  was  exhausted  by  thick  vertigo : 

Weary  in  every  nerve,  in  every  vein, 

[107] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Of  slow,  exact,  mechanical,  measured  steps. 

The  heights  of  curbstones  stretched  his  chin  to  heaven. 

The  widths  of  puddles  wedged  his  brain  apart. 

And  he  was  compelled,  even  with  eyes  wide  open, 

To  fight  his  way  through  a  jeering  darkness, 

To  calculate  on  suddenly  spreading  oceans, 

Scale  monstrous  cliffs  of  curbstone  with  one  step : 

And  always,  at  the  moment  of  his  achievement, 

Unwarily,  he  raised  his  eyes, — 

Raised  them,  one  second,  from  the  relentless 

ground, — 
And,  suddenly,  he  went  crashing  down  in  chaos  .  .  , 

It  was  a  pity  if  one  who,  like  himself, 

Clung  with  his  naked  nerves  to  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 

Could  not  so  rest  his  eyes  on  a  little  flower!  .... 

It  was  a  pity  if  a  black  wind  must  come 

And  blow  it  away  from  him. 

It  was  a  pity,  if,  by  some  harsh  enchantment, 

Like  some  rank  fog  from  the  envious  heart  of  the 

world, 

A  ladderless  wall  should  silently  rise  between  them. 

[108] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

It  was  true  she  was  young,  it  was  true  he  was  twice  her 

age, 

It  was  true  she  was  pretty,  and  not  yet  disillusioned, 
That  he  was  sick  and  old  and  might  soon  die, — 
But  because  in  his  youth  the  fire  of  life  had  seared 

him, — 

Betrayed  him  into  an  acid  pool  of  love, — 
Was  that  a  reason  that  all  should  be  denied  him? 
Was  that  a  reason  the  gods  thought  adequate  ? 
No,  not  for  this!— 

She  came,  then,  through  the  corridors  of  his  brain, 
Walking  into  a  chamber  large  and  fair ; 
Her  feet  made  music  over  the  floors  of  his  brain, 
She  exhaled  a  coolness  and  a  fragrance  there; 
She  walked  forever  through  the  chambers  of  his  brain, 
With  young  blue  eyes,  white  face,  and  yellow  hair. 

Why  had  the  harlot  been  so  importunate  ? 
Why,  again-st  his  will, 

Had  he  so  weakly  consented  to  go  with  her? 
He  must  have  been  tired,  that  night,  he  must  have  been 
lonely, 

[109] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

He  must  have  been  lonely  and  tired,  or  he'd  never  have 

done  it  ... 

She  was  lean  and  ugly,  and  vulgar  in  every  fibre, 
Her  eyes  were  shallow  and  hard,  her  face  was 

powdered, 
She  spat  between  kisses  .  .  .  And  soon  as  their  love  was 

over 
She  left  him  to  walk  the  streets. 


And  now  the  whole  sick  world  in  the  nauseous  dark 
ness 

Sprawled  like  a  harlot's  body,  diseased  and  old ; 
And  the  darkness  in  which  he  'struggled, 
Seemed  like  the  harlot's  hair. 
And  as  he  tossed  and  turned  and  closed  his  eyes 
He  saw  her  horrible  face  before  him  rise, 
Her  lean  red  mouth,  her  pale  consumptive  cheeks : 
He  saw  her  lips  just  opening  for  a  smile,. 
Malicious  and  slow  and  vile  .  .  . 
Wherever  he  turned,  her  face  was  there, 
She  smiled,  and  raised  blue  elbows  to  comb  her  hair. 

[no] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

And  all  this  torture  for  that  ambiguous  pleasure! 
And  to  be  told  he  must  not  slake  his  fever 
In  the  cool  stream  that  sang  before  his  feet! 
That  he  must  reel  forever  and  grasp  at  nothing, 
Dragged  to  a  vortex  on  waves  of  oily  heat !  .  .  . 


Beyond  this  darkness,  beyond  this  yellow  darkness, 
No  doubt  there  was  a  world  in  which  men  laughed, 
In  which  the  grass  was  dusted  blue  with  dew-fall. 
No  doubt  there  was  a  world  in  which  girls  sang, 
And  waited  for  their  lovers  to  come  by  moonlight  . 
But  was  it  not  for  him?.  . 


She  came,  then,  through  the  corridors  of  his  brain, 
Walking  into  a  chamber  large  and  fair: 
Her  feet  made  music  over  the  floors  of  his  brain ; 
She  exhaled  a  coolness,  she  exhaled  a  fragrance  there : 
She  walked  forever  through  the  chambers  of  his  brain; 
With  young  blue  eyes,  pale  face,  and  yellow  hair. 
And  he  remembered,  with  peace,  that  she  had  said 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

She  loved  him.  .  .  But  would  she  love  him  when  he  was 
dead? 


The  astrologer's  red  face  slowly  turned  towards  me 

Against  a  blackboard  scrolled  with  horoscopes, 

An  old  man  nodded,  a  woman  isighed. 

'Now  here's  a  little  blue-eyed  girl  in  Virgo.  .  . 

Loved  by  a  syphilitic.  .  .  '  A  ghostly  whisper  . 

Floated  among  his  deathless  stars,  and  died. 


iv.  \ 

You  say,  before  the  music  starts,  while  still 
Cacophonies  of  tuning  drawl  and  mutter, — 
Snarls  of  horns  and  cries  of  violins, — 
That  so-and-so  has  just  divorced  his  wife, 
That  Paul  is  dead,  leaving  his  work  unfinished, — 
And  what's-her-name  was  hurried,  secretly, 
To  an  asylum.  .  .  What  says  the  music,  then?.  .  . 

[112] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Winds  pour  from  the  chattering  south, 

Warm  foam  crumbles  along  lava  beaches, 

Parrots  are  screeching  greeen 

In  a  sky  of  smouldering  blue. 

Dull  broad  leaves  struggle  against  the  sun. 

And  I  am  there,  and  you.  .  .  . 

You  say,  the  time  has  come  to  make  decisions,- 
Question  and  vacillation  must  be  ended : 
Life  is  too  short,  and  one  must  choose  his  way. 
Laura  was  right  in  breaking  her  engagement. 
They  were  all  foolish  to  gossip  as  they  did.  .  . 
And  wasn't  it  strange.  .  . 

Shell-roads  glare  and  shimmer, 
Heat  is  trembling  on  scarlet  rooftops, 
Bland  leaves  stealthily  creep  and  stare. 
Let  us  go  up  among  the  pinewoods, 
Let  us  go  up  the  wind,  it  is  cooler  there ; 
Let  us  go  slowly  along  hot  yellow  beaches 
To  where  blue  pinewoods  lead  us  upward.  .  . 

["31 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

No,  it  was  not  good  taste,  to  say  the  least.  .  . 

So  soon !  With  spring  grass  not  yet  sharp  above  him  !- 

And  Helen  said.  .  .  And  Beatrice  said.  . 


Sunlight  tempers  how  subtly  into  moonlight! 
Gold  to  silver,  an1  alchemy  of  sound ; 
Rose  to  silence.  .  .  .  And  here  we  dream. 
Green  clouds  slowly  sway  and  revolve  above  us, 
Blue  clouds  dilate  and  suddenly  vanish, 
Gold  stars  are  swallowed  or  gleam. 
Under  these  moving  arches  like  ghosts  we  seem! 
Are  we  real,  or  must  we  perish  ? — 
We  blow  in  the  air,  like  leaves  our  words  are  blown.  .  . 
Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?.  .  . 
I  said  that  I  loved  you,  that  we  are  alone.  .  . 
A  rushing  of  green  clouds  scatters  the  stars  overhead, 
A  roar  of  waves  has  scattered  my  words. 
I  am  running,  silent,  through  nets  of  shadows, 
I  am  caught  in  the  shadows  of  branches. 
I  follow  your  face,  but  now  it  has  paled  and  gone, 
Like  a  ghostly  reflection  of  the  running  moon.  .  . 

[114] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

As  for  friendship,  you  say, — can  women  know  it? 
No !  it  is  always  love,  with  women,  or  nothing.  .  . 
There,  you  can  see  her  now — she's  turned  her  head : 
And  that's  the  latest  way  to  arrange  your  hair. 


Moonlight  spreads  how  gorgeously  into  sunlight ! 

Blue  rocks  bask  in  the  sun, 

Dragon  flies  weave  shuttles  of  blue  through  gold, 

Up  the  green  hill  we  run, 

And  lie  in  the  dazzle,  and  watch  the  clouds 

Swim  in  intense  deep  blue, 

Dissolving,  streaming,  amassing  coldly.  .  . 

Golden  is  noon ;  golden  are  you ; 

Black  bees  cling  and  balance  in  goldenrod ; 

You  laugh  in  the  low-voiced  grass, 

Watching  with  lazy  sun-filled  eyes 

Silent  eternity  streamed  in  the  blue  above  you.  .  . 

And  you  do  not  hear  the  blood  in  my  brain  that  cries, 

'I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !  .  .  . 


You  say,  that  cello-player,  with  the  black  eyes, 

[US] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Wrote  music  once,  conducted  symphonies, 

Had  great  ambitions.  .  .  He  drank  himself  to  this. 

Poor  fellow!  Is  that  true? — And  so  good-looking! 


v. 

Music  from  concertinas  in  an  alley, 

Tinkle  of  glasses  through  a  swinging  door, 

And  cats  with  cold  green  eyes: 

I  have  seen  it  all  a  thousand  times  before. 

A  thousand  nights  have  died  as  this  night  dies.  .  . 

Take  my  arm,  and  come  along  with  me. 

We'll  spend  this  night  contentedly. 

When  the  book  is  opened  just  put  down — 

Oh,  any  names,  it  doesn't  matter !  .  .  . 

They  ask  no  questions  there ;  they  know  me  there ; 

And  follow  me  up  the  stair.  .  . 


Take  my  arm !  You  aren't  afraid  of  me?.  .  . 
You  wouldn't  want  to  leave  me, — would  you  dear  ? 

[116] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Isn't  it  sweet,  this  wa  m  June  evening  air! 
This  is  the  place,  right  here.  .  . 


Turn  the  lights  out.  .  .No  ?  You  want  to  see  me  ? 

Well,  all  right.     Aren't  you  funny,  though ! 

My  hair  is  short  because  I've  had  a  fever, — 

It's  just  begun  to  grow. 

That's  a  hair-net — haven't  you  ever  seen  one? 

Haven't  you  ever  loved  a  girl  before? 

Lovely !  I  never  thought  my  breasts  were  lovely  !- 

This  is  a  ring  my  father  wore. 


Most  men — they're  so  indifferent;  but  you, — 
You  like  me,  don't  you.     You're  so  nice  to  me. 
You  look  at  me,  somehow,  as  if  you  loved  me.  .  . 
Dear,  take  me  with  you  somewhere  by  the  sea. 
We'll  go  in  swimming  and  lie  on  the  beach  together, 
And  love  each  other  all  night  through. 
All  I  need  is  a  pair  of  gloves, — and  a  feather 
To  trim  my  hat  with,  green  or  blue. 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Your  hands,  touching  my  face,  stroking  my 

forehead, — 

What  is  it  they  remind  me  of? 
All  sorts  of  things  when  I  was  young  and  little; 
And  the  first  time  I  fell  in  love.  .  . 
Kiss  me,  dear.     You  kiss  me  as  if  you  meant  it. 
Keep  the  ring — it's  brass — to  remember  me  by. 
Don't  forget  to  write  me.     Turn  the  lights  out. 
Soon  as  you've  left,  I'm  going  to  sleep, —  or  try.  .  . 

Now  you've  gone.     And  I'm  alone  once  more, 

Staring  against  the  darkness ; 

As  I  have  stared  a  thousand  times  before. 

You  walk  through  lonely  streets  in  quiet  moonlight. 

You'll  throw  away  the  worthless  ring  I  wore. 

Where  are  you  going?     W7hat  will  you  see  to-morrow? 

Who  will  your  lovers  be? 

How  long, — I  wonder,— will  you  remember  me?.  .  . 


118] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Music  from  concertinas  in  an  alley. 

And  cats  with  slow  green  eyes, — 

A  thousand  nights  have  died  as  this  night  dies. 

The  stars  dance  out,  the  air  blows  warm  to-night, 

The  girls  are  all  in  white. 

Bargains  are  struck,  they  laugh,  they  glide  away, 

Some  to  love   and  some  to  lust. 

In  smoky  lounges  tired  musicians  play. 

The  harlot's  slippers  are  grey  with  dust.  .  . 

And  now  we  turn  towards  a  depth  of  sleep, 

Tired  of  music,  of  lamps  and  cigarettes, 

Tired  of  fevered  faces. 

Now  let  us  seek  a  solitude,  and  rest 

In  dark  and  quiet  places. 

Let  us  go  in  through  labyrinthine  darkness 

Seeking  the  strange  cool  secret  of  ourselves, 

To  stretch  ourselves  in  soundless  -shadow,  and  sleep. 

Let  us  go  in  through  labyrinthine  darkness. 

Wind  whistles.     We  are  falling.     The  night  is  deep. 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Who  am  I?    Am  I  he  that  loved  and  murdered? 
Who  walked  in  sunlight,  heard  a  music  playing? 
Or  saw  a  pigeon  tumbling  down  a  wall  ? 
Someone  drowned  in  the  cold  floods  of  my  heart. 
Someone  fell  to  a  net — I  saw  him  fall. 


I  have  run  in  through  earth  and  out  again, 
I  have  been  under  seas,  among  hot  stars ; 
My  eyes  are  dazzled ;  my  feet  are  tired. 
Someone  hated  me,  and  pursued,  and  killed  me. 
For  a  million  years  my  body  has  been  desired. 


Tired  of  change,  I  seek  the  unmoving  centre — 
But  is  it  moveless, — or  are  all  things  turning? 
Great  wheels  revolve.    I  fall  among  them  and  die. 
My  veins  are  streets.     Millions  of  men  rush  through 

them. 
Which,  in  this  terrible  multitude,  is  I? 

[120] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

I  hurry  to  him,  I  plunge  through  jostling  darkness, 
I  think  I  see  his  face — 

He's  gone.     And  a  sinister  stranger  leers  at  me. 
Countless  eyes  of  strangers  are  turned  toward  me. 
Who's  this  that  all  our  eyes  are  turned  to  see  ? 


We  look  at  him,  but  suddenly  he  has  vanished, 

WTe  turn  in  the  darkness,  we  murmur  at  one  another, 

We  snarl  with  hatred,  we  strike,  we  kill,  we  run. 

We  whirl  in  the  silence,  become  a  soundless  vortex. 

We  lift  our  idiot  faces  to  the  sun. 

We  flow  together ;  we  rage,  we  shout,  we  sing ; 

Pour  and  engulf;  recoil,  disgorge,  and  spring. 


VI. 

The  walls  of  all  the  city  are  rolled  away; 
And  suddenly  all  the  lighted  rooms  are  bare, 
Numberless  gas-jets  flare, 
Thousands  of  secret  lives,  with  unconcern, 

[12!] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Yawn  and  turn. 

Men  in  their  'shirtsleeves  reading  papers, 

Women  by  mirrors  combing  out  their  hair, 

Women  sleeping,  old  men  dying, 

The  furtive  lover  half  way  up  the  stair; 

And  in  tumultuous  cabarets 

And  music-filled  cafes, 

Dancers  among  white  tables  slowly  turning, 

Face  fixed  on  face  with  pa'ssionate  yearning, 

Following  ever  the  interwreathing  beat 

With  spellbound  feet. 

The  old  violinist,  with  white  hair, 

Leaves  his  music,  tosses  his  arms  in  the  air, 

Snaps  his  fingers  and  sings; 

Maenad  maidens  in  bacchanalian  dance 

Follow  as  in  a  trance 

\Vith  heads  thrown  back,  shut  eyes,  and  yearning 

throats 

The  menacing  mournful  notes. 
The  young  man  drinks  and  leans  across  the  table, 
Through  clamor  of  music  and  hurrying  feet 

[122] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Desperate  to  repeat 

What  she,  who  lowers  her  eyes,  has  heard  before; 
And  across  his  shoulder,  while  he  has  turned  away, 
She  smiles  to  her  lover  who  smiles  beside  the  door.  . . 

Darkness  descends,  more  walls  are  rolled  away.  .  , 
Sudden,  they  lower  the  curtain  on  the  play.  .  . 
A  chorus-girl  has  fainted  before  the  footlights ; 
She  is  hurried  off,  her  child  is  born  and  dies, 
In  a  hotel  bedroom  white  and  weak  she  lies, 
While  chorus-girls  about  her  giggle  and  joke 
And  the  young  men  smoke, 

And  all  are  asking,     'Who  was  the  father,  dear? 
No  one  will  hear !' — 

The  sky  above  grows  suddenly  coppery  red, 
Sparks  and  smoke  go  up  across  the  stars, 
Wheels  rumble,  the  men  rush  out  of  bars 
To  see  great  horses  pass. 

Thick  flames  burst  from  the  windows  and  spout  up 
walls, 

[123] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

The  firemen's  faces  are  white  in  the  ghastly  light, 

A  ladder  is  raised,  up  it  a  fireman  crawls ; 

And  suddenly  with  a  roar  the  ladder  falls 

With  the  falling  house  front  into  a  storm  of  fire, 

And  the  crowd  shrieks,  and  presses  back  from  the  heat, 

And  the  twisted  flame  spouts  higher.  .  . 

A  woman  had  started  to  carry  her  child  downstairs, 

She  was  driven  back  by  a  gust  of  flame  in  her  face, 

They  lay  on  the  scorching  floor  to  escape  the  smoke, 

The  child  at  last  ceased  crying, 

She  knew  that  her  child  was  dead,  that  she  herself  was 

dying.  .  . 

Peal,  bells !  Crash,  walls ! .  . . 
Into  the  quiet  darkness  at  last  it  falls.  .  . 


Policemen  loiter  along  their  beats 
Through  deserted  streets. 
And  now,  while  the  houses  sleep, 
The  burglars  scale  the  moonlit  walls,  or  creep 
Up  cobbled  alleys ;  doors  are  quietly  forced, 
Panes  are  cut  and  tapped,  to  fall  with  a  chime, 

[124] 


The  Jig-  of  Forslin 

Fitfully  flits  and  falls 

The  nervous  arc  of  light  on  floors  and  walls. 

Safes  are  drilled,  silver  turns  and  glistens, 

A  whistle  is  blown,  the  night  falls  suddenly  still, 

Sweating  the  marauder  listens, 

Glides  to  the  window-sill, 

And  under  the  watchful  stars,  at  last,  is  gone. 

And  then  over  glimmering  walls  and  waking  streets, 

Among  grey  ash-cans,  creeping  to  numberless  rooms. 

Comes  the  cold  soulless  dawn. 


VIII. 

Time.  .  .     Time.  .  .     Time.  .  . 

And  through  the  immortal  silence  we  may  hear 

The  choral  stars  like  great  clocks  tick  and  chime. 

Destiny,  with  inquisitorial  eye, 

Regards  the  jewelled  movement  of  the  sky. 

And  there  alone,  in  a  little  lamplit  room, 

Immortal,  changeless,  in  a  changeless  dream, 

Forslin  sits  and  meditates;  and  hears 

The  hurrying  days  go  down  to  join  the  years. 

[1251 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

In  the  evening,  as  the  lamps  are  lighted, 

Sitting  alone  in  his  strange  world, 

He  meditates;  and  through  his  musing  hears 

The  tired  footfalls  of  the  dying  day 

Monotonously  ebb  and  ebb  away 

Into  the  smouldering  west; 

And  hears  the  dark  world  slowly  come  to  rest. 

Now,  as  the  real  world  dwindles  and  grows  dim, 

His  dreams  come  back  to  him: 

Now,  as  one  who  stands 

In  the  aquarium's  gloom,  by  creeping  sands, 

Watching  the  glide  of  fish  beneath  pale  bubbles, 

The  bubbles  briefly  streaming, 

Cold  and  white  and  green,  poured  in  silver, — 

He  does  not  know  if  this  is  wake  or  dreaming; 

But  thinks  to  lean,  reach  out  his  hands,  and  swim.  .  , 


The  music  weaves  about  him,  gold  and  silver; 
The  music  chatters,  the  music  sings, 
The  music  sinks  and  dies. 

Who  dies,  who  lives?     What  leaves  remain  forever? 

[126] 


The  Jig  of  Forslin 

Who  knows  the  secret  of  the  immortal  springs? 
Who  laughs,  who  kills,  who  cries? 

We  hold  them  all,  they  walk  our  dreams  forever, 

Nothing  perishes  in  that  haunted  air, 

Nothing  but  is  immortal  there. 

And  we  ourselves,  dying  with  all  our  worlds, 

Will  only  pass  the  ghostly  portal 

Into  another's  dream ;  and  so  live  on 

Through  dream  to  dream,  immortal. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


iOV   301936  Jrc-0 


U   C   BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


i; 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


